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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


/*-• 


W.   H.   STEELE 


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•  *,.'••..•'•/• 


MEMORIES 

of  BY-GONE 

DAYS 

By  W.  H.  STEELE 


ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM 

PHOTOGRAPHS    BY 

TH  E    AUTHOR 


HASTINGS,  NEBRASKA 

YEAR  MCMXII 


?&§§ 


COPYRIGHTED,  YEAR  MCMX1I 


PRINTED  BY 

THE  BEACON  PRESS 

OMAHA 


5K  17 


TO  MY  WIFE 


28G13O 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Old  Maquoketa   (illustrated) 13 

Memories  of  Father  (illustrated)       15 

My  First  Pair  of  Mallards •.  19 

Memories  of  the  Old  Bridge  (illustrated) 23 

A  Day  on  the  Maquoketa 27 

An   Evening's    Fishing 31 

The  Big  Pike  (illustrated) 35 

A  Novel  Muskrat  Hunt 39 

A  Rabbit  Hunt  on  the  Prairie 45 

A  Day  with  the  Squirrels  (illustrated) 49 

My  First  Ice-Boat  Ride 55 

Old  Punch 59 

An  Old  Negative  (illustrated) 63 

A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas 65 

Old  October  Days  in  Iowa 73 

In    Northern    Woods 79 

Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies  (illustrated) 83 

Christmas  in  the  Old  Log-Cabin 91 

A  New  Year's  Deer  Hunt  (illustrated) 95 

Springtime   in   the   Country 99 

Two  Days  on  the  St.  Vrain  (illustrated) 103 

Lost  on  the  Prairie 107 

A  Winter  Night's  Tale 113 

A  Day  in  Ellington  Woods  (illustrated) 115 

Impressions  by  the  Way 119 

A  Day  on  Lake  Tetonka  (illustrated) 123 

A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake  (illustrated) 127 

Little  Partner 133 

The  Old  Fishing  Hole 139 

Memories  of  the  World's  Fair,  St.  Louis   (illustrated)     ....  143 

A  Day  at  Cliff  (illustrated) 149 

A  Day  on  Bear  Brook 155 

September  Days  at  Madison  Lake  (illustrated) 159 


CONT  ENTS—  Continued. 

Page 

An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska 165 

An  Evening  on  Lake  Waterforcl 171 

A  Day  with  the  Buffalo  Bass  (illustrated) 175 

A  Practical  Joke 179 

Angling  for  Rats 181 

How  the  Doctor  Gained  His  Point 183 

Jumping  Chickens  in  the  Corn 185 

A  Lake  of  Petroleum 187 

Some  Queer  Catches 189 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

Old   Maquoketa 13 

Father's   Last   Picture 15 

The  Old   Bridge '  .     .  23 

"Another  cast  and  the  spoon  dropped  lightly  on  the  water"  ...  35 

"A  comfortable  position  on  the  old  butternut" 49 

October  Afternoon  on  Lime  Creek 63 

Hunting  with   Brother  John 73 

"The  view  that  lay  spread  out  around  and  below  well  repaid  the 

hours  of  toil" 85 

"Several  casts  in  the  still  waters  failed  to  bring  a  rise"     ....  87 

Winter  Morning  Scene 95 

"Entering  the   Narrows" 103 

"Evening  in  Ellington  Woods" 115 

Oak  Point 123 

Thatcher  Monument 127 

Thatcher  Cabin 129 

The  Electric  Building 143 

In  the  Philippine  Village 145 

"Mrs.  S.  climbed  out  on  the  rocks" 149 

"The  sunlit  riffles  of  the  bay" 159 

"My  twenty-six  pound  bass" 162 

"Our  angler  lands  at  the  mouth  of  Wilson  Creek" 175 


FOREWORD. 

When  my  husband  asked  me  to  write  the  foreword  to  this 
little  book  I  was  glad,  for  no  one  except  the  author  can  feel  so 
great  an  interest  in  this  as  I  do.  His  articles  and  pictures  for 
the  outdoor  magazines  have  been  a  pleasure  to  both  of  us,  and 
it  has  long  been  my  desire  to  see  them  gathered  into  a  volume 
in  permanent  form. 

In  "Memories  of  Bygone  Days"  there  is  no  morbid 
tendency  to  disparage  present  joys,  but  simply  a  wholesome 
retrospect. 

"Lulled  in  the   countless   chambers   of  the   brain 
Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain." 

We  may  make  of  memory  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  just  as 
we  will.  It  is  a  stupendous  thought  that  we  are  augmenting  or 
decreasing  future  pleasure  by  the  way  we  spend  today.  "The 
only  use  we  have  for  our  past  is  to  get  a  future  out  of  it." 

"All  the  pleasures  of  today 

One  by  one  soon  glide  away 

To  the  golden  shore  of  sweet  long  ago." 

Happy  is  that  man  whose  memories  are  pleasant  and 
profitable  company. 

ALICE  KIMBALL  STEELE. 
Hastings,  Nebraska. 


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Father's  Last  Picture. 


Memories  of  Father. 

Those  of  our  readers  who  have  reached  the  meridian  of 
life  and  are  traveling  down  the  shady  side  no  doubt  often  look 
back  to  boyhood,  and  live  over  again  those  glorious  days  on 
the. stream,  in  the  wood  or  in  the  thicket.  I  am  thankful  for 
the  faculty  that  enables  me  to  look  back  and  enjoy,  in  retro- 
spect, those  boyhood  days. 

Among  the  most  pleasant  memories  of  bygone  days  are 
the  fishing  and  shooting  trips  with  father.  He  was  a  natural 
woodsman,  a  good  shot,  and  successful  with  the  rod.  Among 
my  earliest  recollections' are  the  days  I  followed  father  through 
the  woods  carrying  his  game  for  him. 

Ah,  well  do  I  remember  the  first  fish  I  caught !  It  was 
father  who  cut  the  little  willow  pole,  tied  on  a  line  of  linen 
thread  and  a  bent  pin  hook. 

He  showed  me  where  to  drop  in  my  line  near  the  roots 
of  a  stump,  then  went  back  to  his  fishing,  but  kept  an  eye 
on  me. 

As  the  pin  hook  sank  slowly  near  the  roots,  a  very  small 
pumpkin  seed  snatched  the  bait  off  my  hook  and  disappeared 

[IS] 


Memories  of  Father. 


before  I  thought  of  jerking  him  out.  I  called  to  father  and  he 
came  and  baited  my  hook  again,  and  showed  me  how  to  do  my 
own  baiting.  Then,  instructing  me  carefully  how  to  hook  and 
land  my  catch,  he  went  back  to  his  fishing  again.  I  continued 
feeding  them  angleworms,  and  as  the  feast  progressed  the  fish 
increased  in  numbers  and  size.  At  last  a  big  one  grabbed  the 
bait  so  greedily  that  the  bent  pin  got  down  his  throat  so  far 
it  caught  fast  and  I  landed  him. 

Father  had  to  release  the  hook,  but  that  is  all  I  allowed 
him  to  do.  I  cut  a  willow  stringer,  placed  him  on  it,  and  laid 
him  in  the  edge  of  the  water. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  angling  comradeship  that 
lasted  through  the  remainder  of  father's  life. 

Many  happy  days  did  we  spend  together  on  lake  and 
stream. 

I  remember,  too,  the  first  hunt  we  enjoyed  together  when 
I  got  old  enough  to  own  and  carry  my  own  gun.  It  was  a 
cheap,  second-hand  single  barrel,  but  to  me  it  was  a  beauty 
and  I  carried  it  that  day  with  more  pride  and  pleasure  than  I 
have  ever  felt  over  any  gun  since. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  autumn  that  father  took  me  with 
him  on  my  first  squirrel  hunt.  Game  was  plentiful  in  those 
days,  and  we  had  been  in  the  woods  but  a  short  time,  when  a 
grey  flirted  his  tail  at  us,  and  scampered  up  a  large  white  oak. 
Father  pointed  him  out  to  me,  away  up  in  a  fork ;  I  took  care- 
ful aim,  pulled  the  trigger,  and  at  the  crack  of  the  gun  down 
came  my  first  squirrel.  He  no  sooner  struck  the  ground,  then 
gathering  himself  together  he  started  up  the  tree  again.  Grasp- 
ing my  gun  by  the  barrel,  I  whacked  away  at  him  with  the 
stock.  I  missed  the  squirrel,  but  hit  the  tree  and,  of  course, 
broke  my  gun-stock. 

I  had  some  copper  wire  in  my  pocket,  with  which  father 
wound  the  broken  stock,  and  I  was  in  shooting  trim  again. 
From  this  accident  I  learned  two  valuable  lessons — first,  how 
to  repair  a  gun-stock  in  the  field ;  second,  never  to  use  the 

[16] 


Memories  of  Father. 


wrong  end  of  my  gun  on  -game  unless  compelled  to  do  so  in 
self-defense.  We  had  a  pleasant  and  successful  day's  hunt, 
taking  home  with  us  a  fine  string  of  pigeons  and  squirrels. 

This  was  our  first  hunt  together,  but  not  our  last.  As 
long  as  I  remained  at  home  father  was  my  first  choice  on  all 
shooting  and  fishing  trips.  Many  a  happy  day  we  spent 
together,  tramping  through  the  old  familiar  woods  after  squir- 
rels, quail  and  pheasants,  or  following  the  windings  of  the 
Maquoketa,  after  ducks  and  fish. 

When  I  located  in  a  distant  city  for  the  practice  of  my 
profession,  I  continued  my  early  morning  shooting  and  fishing 
trips  as  of  old,  but  missed  the  companionship  of  father.  How- 
ever, he  visited  me  nearly  every  year  as  long  as  he  was  able  to 
do  so  and,  at  such  times,  we  enjoyed  several  clays  of  shooting 
and  fishing  together.  The  last  time  he  came  I  was  living  at 
Forest  City,  Iowa,  and  we  had  some  fine  squirrel  shooting. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  last  beautiful  autumn  morning  we 
spent  in  the  woods  on  Lime  Creek.  We  got  a  fine  bunch  of 
squirrels  early  in  the  forenoon  and  decided  to  return  for  dinner. 
After  crossing  the  foot  bridge  I  made  a  snap-shot  of  father 
before  we  took  the  short-cut  through  Mahony's  Grove.  That 
was  our  last  hunt  together,  and  the  picture  I  made  that  morn- 
ing was  the  last  father  ever  had. 

Had  I  then  known  these  lines  from  Riley  I  should  have 
exclaimed : 

"Oh,  the  present  is  too  sweet 

To  go  on  forever  thus! 
Round  the  corner  of  the  street 

Who  can  say  what  waits  for  us?" 


[17] 


My  First  Pair  of  Mallards. 

Nothing  revives  happy  episodes  of  the  past  more  vividly 
than  a  visit  to  one's  boyhood  home.  Yet,  although  it  affords 
much  pleasure  to  re-visit  the  old  scenes,  there  is  oftentimes 
a  dark  side  to  the  bright  picture  you  had  stored  away  in  mem- 
ory. The  timber  has  been  cut  off  the  hills,  the  dear  old  plum 
thicket  is  gone,  the  venerable  walnut  trees  have  been  sacrificed 
for  lumber,  and  the  river  is  not  so  deep,  nor  so  wide,  nor  so 
clear  as  it  used  to  be.  Many  of  the  old  schoolmates  are  sleep- 
ing in  the  little  village  cemetery ;  others  have  moved  away ;  and 
— saddest  of  all — strangers  are  living  in  the  dear  old  homestead 
where  so  many  happy  hours  were  spent.  A  visit  of  this  kind, 
not  long  ago,  carried  me  back  to  the  morning  of  my  first  suc- 
cess in  duck  hunting.  The  scene  of  this  exploit  was  the  "Old 
Goose  Pond,"  in  Eastern  Iowa.  At  that  time  it  was  a  large 
body  of  water  and  five  or  six  feet  deep ;  but,  when  last  visited, 
the  water  had  been  drained  off  and  the  place  where  I  shot  my 
first  mallard  was  a  vast  field  of  waving  corn.  Standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  field,  and  looking  across  toward  the  distant  hills, 
memory  filled  all  that  fertile  lowland  with  water,  and  the  pic- 
ture of  a  bare-footed  boy,  with  a  small  single  barrel  in  one 
hand,  as  with  the  other  he  tremblingly  poked  aside  the  rushes 
and  cat-tails,  seemed  as  real  as  on  that  eventful  morning  over 
thirty-five  years  ago,  when  I  pulled  my  first  trigger  on  ducks. 

I  was  always  a  great  lover  of  field  and  stream,  and,  when 
a  boy,  spent  all  my  leisure  time  roaming  the  woods  or  following 
the  winding  turns  of  the  old  Maquoketa.  I  was  familiar  with 
every  nook  and  cranny  of  that  classic  stream.  I  could  point 
out  the  dead  tree  overhanging  the  shallow  riffles,  where  you 
were  always  sure  to  find  a  kingfisher  sitting,  peering  down  into 
the  water — watching  for  his  dinner.  The  best  squirrel  trees 
and  fishing  holes  were  known  to  me,  and  if  I  wanted  a  string 
of  bass,  suckers,  dace  or  chubs,  I  knew  where  to  find  them,  and 
the  kind  of  bait  and  tackle  that  would  take  them.  Others  might 

[19] 


My  First  Pair  of  Mallards. 


come  home  from  the  river  with  empty  creel,  and  the  proverbial 
fisherman's  luck ;  but  rarely  did  I  spend  a  day  on  Honey  Creek, 
Coffin's  Creek  or  the  Maquoketa  without  getting  a  fine  string 
of  fish ;  and  many's  the  time  I  have  come  home  at  night  with  a 
willow  stringer  thrown  over  my  shoulder  and  the  tails  of  the 
bottom  fish  dragging  the  ground  behind  me. 

Returning  from  one  of  those  Saturday  fishing  trips,  as  I 
was  passing  near  the  end  of  Goose  Pond,  my  ears  caught  the 
sound  of  splashing  water,  and,  thinking  it  might  be  made  by 
a  family  of  muskrats,  I  determined  to  investigate.  Crawling 
cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the  thicket,  what  was  my  surprise  to 
see  a  mother  mallard  and  her  brood.  She  was  giving  her  little 
family  their  supper,  and  the  way  those  little  balls  of  down  went 
after  the  tender  celery  roots  that  the  duck  mother  brought  up 
from  the  bottom  for  them  was  a  caution.  How  I  did  enjoy 
watching  this  most  wary  of  our  game  birds  and  her  young 
brood  at  supper — out  there  on  the  still  waters  of  the  old  pond ! 
Then  came  a  low  but  resonant  "Quack!  quack!"  from  the 
rushes  near  the  far  shore,  and  the  mother  duck,  answering, 
swam  off  to  meet  her  mate.  I  had  been  coaxing  father  for  a 
gun  ever  since  Christmas,  and  had  been  told  that  I  was  not 
yet  old  enough  to  handle  one.  But  the  sight  I  had  just  wit- 
nessed aroused  me  to  the  verge  of  desperation.  This  being 
the  breeding  ground  of  the  brood,  I  knew  they  would  make  the 
place  their  home,  until  the  migratory  flocks  began  to  arrive 
from  the  north  in  the  fall.  The  place  was  seldom  visited  by 
any  one  but  myself,  and  it  was  more  than  likely  I  would  get 
the  first  chance  at  them  when  they  would  be  large  enough  to 
shoot.  On  arriving  home,  I  told  father  of  my  discovery,  and 
pleaded  again  for  a  gun.  "Well,  Will,"  said  he,  "a  boy  is  not 
large  enough  to  have  a  gun  until  he  is  large  enough  to  earn  it. 
But  if  you  can  earn  one  during  vacation,  I  am  willing  you 
should  hunt  this  fall." 

I  now  had  an  object  to  work  for,  and  I  bent  all  my  energies 
to  the  task.  I  kept  an  eye  open  for  opportunities  to  earn  money 
and  saved  every  cent  I  earned.  Like  everything  else  in  life  that 

[20] 


My  First  Pair  of  Mallards. 


one  starts  out  determined  to  accomplish,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
how  easy  it  was  to  win  the  goal.  Early  one  September  morn- 
ing I  counted  the  contents  of  my  savings  bank  and  found  I 
had  just  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  little  single-barrel  in  a 
down  town  store  window  that  I  had  been  keeping  an  eye  on  all 
summer.  My  hard-earned  hoard  was  soon  in  the  till  of'  the 
hardware  man,  and  I  was  the  happy  possessor  of  my  first  gun. 

The  next  day  I  loaded  up  my  pockets  with  a  bottle  of  shot, 
a  flask  of  powder  and  a  box  of  G.  D.  caps,  shouldered  the  little 
gun,  and  made  a  short-cut  for  the  old  pond.  On  getting  near 
the  place,  I  crept  cautiously  through  the  thicket  toward  the 
water.  There  was  an  old  dead  stub  of  a  tree,  standing  a  little 
distance  from  the  edge  of  the  thicket  and  only  a  few  feet  away 
from  the  water.  I  felt  confident  that,  if  I  could  reach  this  point 
without  being  seen,  I  was  sure  of  a  shot — their  favorite  resort 
about  that  time  of  day  being  not  more  than  thirty  yards  from 
the  stump.  In  order  to  gain  this  point,  I  had  to  cross  an  open 
space,  covered  only  with  a  short  growth  of  wire  grass.  On 
reaching  this  open  ground  I  took  off  my  straw  hat,  dropped 
clown  on  my  stomach,  and,  pushing  the  gun  ahead  of  me,  wrig- 
gled along  slowly  toward  the  coveted  hiding  place.  It  was 
tedious  work,  and  it  seemed  as  though  I  would  never  reach  it. 
The  occasional  Quack !  quack !  of  a  duck,  floating  to  my  ears 
from  over  the  water,  did  not  serve  to  quiet  my  nerves  any,  and, 
when  I  at  last  gained  the  cover,  it  was  a  very  tired  and  excited 
boy  that  peered  out  from  behind  the  old  stub.  Yes,  there  they 
were — the  old  mother  and  five  of  the  young  ones,  but  too  far 
out  for  my  little  gun. 

All  true  disciples  of  Nimrod  must  be  imbued  with  an  unlim- 
ited amount  of  patience,  and  on  this  memorable  afternoon  I  sat 
and  watched  those  ducks,  with  hopes  alternately  rising  and 
falling,  as  they  worked  in  toward  my  hiding  place  or  swam 
away  from  it.  Just  before  sunset  they  glided  off  to  their  island 
home  in  the  middle  of  the  pond  and  I  had  to  give  it  up  and  go 
home  for  the  night.  I  suspect  my  face  showed  failure,  even  if 
my  heart  did  not  acknowledge  it ;  for,  on  arriving  home,  father 

[21] 


My  First  Pair  of  Mallards. 


inquired,  "Well,  Will — what  luck?"  On  telling  him  of  my  poor 
success,  he  consoled  me  by  saying:  "Never  mind,  son.  It  is 
very  evident  that  those  ducks  have  been  shot  at  since  you  last 
visited  them.  You  say  that  there  are  now  only  five  of  the 
young  ones,  while  there  were  six  all  summer ;  the  missing  one 
was  likely  shot  by  some  passing  hunter  from  the  cover  of  the 
thicket,  and  they  have  become  shy  and  keep  away  from  it  dur- 
ing the  day.  If  you  will  get  there  some  morning  before  day- 
light, you  will  be  certain  to  get  a  shot  at  them  when  they  work 
"in  to  feed."  The  next  morning  was  cold  and  raw,  but  I  was  in 
my  hiding  place  before  it  was  fairly  light.  I  could  hear  the 
ducks  diving  and  splashing  in  the  water,  as  they  gradually 
worked  in  toward  the  shore.  Just  as  the  sun  was  creeping  up 
behind  the  hills  across  the  pond,  I  raised  up  carefully  and 
peeked  through  the  tops  of  the  rice  and  cat-tails.  There  they 
were — near  enough  for  a  shot,  but  getting  very  uneasy.  Throw- 
ing the  little  gun  to  my  shoulder,  I  caught  a  quick  aim  and 
pulled  the  trigger,  just  in  time  to  catch  them  before  they  got 
on  the  wing.  What  was  my  surprise  to  see  two  of  them  remain 
on  the  water — one  dead  and  the  other  so  badly  wounded  it 
could  not  get  away.  I  was  in  full  swimming  costume  in  about 
a  minute,  paying  no  heed  to  mud,  water  or  cold — and  when  I 
swam  back  to  shore  with  those  two  ducks  I  was  the  proudest 
boy  in  the  beautiful  Prairie  State.  The  fact  that  I  had  earned 
my  gun  and  ammunition  and  killed  my  ducks  alone  added 
much  to  the  pleasure.  I  visited  the  old  pond  many  times  dur- 
ing the  fall,  and  got  several  ducks  and  many  grey  squirrels 
from  the  nearby  woods ;  but  never  again  did  I  experience  quite 
the  same  thrill  of  pleasure  from  any  successful  shot  as  I  did 
from  that  which  brought  me  my  first  pair  of  mallards. 

—Sports  Afield. 


[22] 


Memories  of  the  Old  Bridge. 

Last  year  we  made  a  short  visit  to  my  boyhood  home,  the 
beautiful  little  town  of  Manchester,  Iowa. 

As  we  glided  noiselessly  in  an  automobile  over  the  modern 
steel  bridge  that  now  spans  the  river,  my  thoughts  wandered 
back  to  other  days,  when  the  heavy  farm  wagons  used  to  go 
rattling  over  the  loose  planks  of  the  old  wooden-pile  bridge. 

The  new  structure  is  beautiful  and  desirable,  and  yet  the 
old  bridge  of  boyhood  days  has  a  warm  spot  in  my  memory 
which  can  never  be  supplanted  by  the  more  modern  structure. 
For  as  a  barefoot  boy  I  trudged  over  it,  swinging  the  cane  pole 
that  was  soon  to  tremble  with  the  struggles  of  redhorse  or  bass 
pulled  out  of  the  riffles  or  deep  holes  above  the  old  bridge. 

Oh,  those  dear  old  bygone  summer  days !  As  I  leaned  over 
the  quiet  waters  I  saw  reflected  there  a  laughing  face  and 
curly  head  crowned  with  an  old  battered  straw  hat,  made  from 
oat  straw  and  braided  by  mother. 

Down  a  little  closer,  and  shading  my  eyes  from  the  morn- 
ing sun  with  a  brown  hand — yes,  there  he  is,  the  giant  black 
bass  that  has  evaded  my  snare  so  many  times.  The  brass  wire 

[23] 


Memories  of  the  Old  Bridge. 


is  dropped  quietly  into  the  water  and  worked  down  carefully 
toward  him.  The  world  seems  to  hang  in  the  balance  as  I 
work  the  wire  down  toward  those  lazily  opening  and  closing 
gills.  And  then,  bitter  disappointment,  just  as  the  wire  loop 
reaches  his  nose,  he  makes  a  dash  for  midstream  and  is  gone. 

This  experience  afforded  splendid  preparation,  though  on 
a  small  scale,  for  coming  events  in  Curlyhead's  life  when  ideals 
would  melt  away  like  morning  mists  on  the  old  Maquoketa. 

Strange  how  some  little  event  of  early  boyhood  will  go 
with  one  and  influence  him  through  an  entire  life. 

My  experience  with  the  giant  bass  of  the  old  Maquoketa 
was  a  demand  on  my  inventive  genius  and  skill  and  presever- 
ance  that  I  had  never  been  called  upon  to  meet  before,  and 
did  more  to  develop  in  me  those  qualities  than  any  other  inci- 
dent of  my  early  life. 

For  weeks  I  invented  and  tried  new  ways  and  new  tackle, 
only  to  meet  with  failure.  \Yell  do  I  remember  the  warm  June 
morning  when  success  crowned  my  efforts. 

A  heavy  fog  hung  over  the  stream  and  the  sun  looked  like 
a  big  ball  of  fire  as  it  floated  in  the  haze  above  the  tree  tops. 
As  I  approached  the  favorite  haunt  of  the  old  bass,  the  fog 
drifted  away  before  the  morning  breeze.  Peering  into  the 
depths  of  the  dark  water  I  discovered  my  old  acquaintance 
lying  under  the  edge  of  a  sunken  log. 

Dropping  the  snare  in  above  him,  I  guided  it  slowly  down 
stream  along  the  old  log  toward  his  nose.  Never  will  I  forget 
the  thrill  of  pleasure  that  shot  through  me  as  the  brass  wire 
passed  those  gently  fanning  fins.  A  quick,  firm  jerk  of  the  pole 
set  the  snare  on  the  bronze  backed  warrior,  and  the  fight  was 
on.  The  pole  bent  in  the  shape  of  an  arch  as  he  tore  through 
the  water  in  circles,  trying  to  free  himself  from  the  wire. 

In  one  of  his  mad  rushes  the  pole  broke.  Nothing  daunted, 
I  plunged  into  the  stream  and  swam  after  the  pole,  which  was 
slowly  moving  across  the  river  toward  a  deep  hole  on  the  other 
side.  I  soon  overtook  the  pole,  and  I  got  my  second  thrill  that 
memorable  morning  when  my  hand  grasped  the  broken  pole 

[24] 


Memories  of  the  Old  Bridge. 


and  I  found  my  captive  still  safely  anchored  to  the  other  end 
of  the  line. 

Swimming  to  shore  I  crawled  upon  the  bank  dragging  my 
trophy  with  me.  To  say  that  I  was  proud  of  my  achievement 
would  be  putting  it  mildly. 

I  had  glory  enough  for  one  day  and  stringing  my  bass  on 
a  willow  I  made  a  short-cut  for  town. 

This  is  only  one  among  many  pleasant  memories  that  send 
my  thoughts  back  to  other  days — to  early  spring  rambles  along 
the  river  in  search  of  the  first  violet,  and  evenings  spent  in  row- 
ing or  trolling  for  bass. 

How  the  mossy  bogs  did  quake  as  I  tip-toed  carefully  out 
on  them  to  reach  the  beautiful  fragrant  water  lilies ! 

And  then  those  August  and  September  days  when  I  fol- 
lowed old  Sport  over  hill  and  vale  after  prairie  chickens  and 
quail.  But  most  distinct  in  all  these  pleasant  memories  of  the 
old  bridge  and  river  is  my  capture  of  the  big  black  bass. 


[25] 


A  Day  on  the  Maquoketa. 

"Hello,  Doc !  Get  a  move  on  you !  It's  almost  5  o'clock  and 
we  should  be  at  the  Quaker  Mill  right  now,  if  we  expect  to  get 
any  bass  today."  Such  was  the  greeting  fired  at  me  from  the 
door  by  my  old  chum  Arthur  Green  who  was  impatiently 
awaiting  me  to  join  him  on  a  proposed  fishing  trip  to  the  mill. 
I  jumped  into  my  fishing  togs  as  fast  as  possible,  got  together 
my  tackle,  minnow  bucket  and  lunch,  and  we  were  off. 

It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  October  mornings  so  common 
in  Northern  Iowa  during  the  Indian  summer  season,  and  as  we 
turned  off  Franklin  Street  and  entered  Acre's  Grove  I  could  not 
but  be  thankful  for  the  spark  of  Waltonian  fire  within  me 
which  called  me  out  on  such  a  glorious  morning.  Chatting 
merrily  as  we  tramped  along  the  sandy  road,  we  found  our- 
selves on  the  bank  of  Honey  Creek  before  we  realized  it.  Here 
was  where  we  expected  to  fill  our  minnow  pails.  Taking  off 
our  shoes  and  rolling  up  our  trousers,  we  made  a  swing  around 
below  the  bar  with  our  little  seine  and  scooped  up  a  fine  lot  of 
minnows.  Hiding  our  seine  in  the  willows,  we  were  off  for 
the  mill.  It  was  but  a  fifteen  minutes'  walk  to  the  pond,  and 
storing  our  outfit  in  the  old  flat-bottomed  boat,  we  were  ready 
for  the  day's  sport. 

Successful  bass  fishing  is  an  art,  even  when  the  streams  are 
full  of  them,  and  the  novice  frequently  comes  home  after  a  hard 
day's  work,  tired  and  worn  out,  with  an  empty  string — the  bass 
upon  which  he  doted  being  most  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 
The  most  essential  things  necessary  to  lure  the  bronze-backed 
beauties  from  their  haunts  are  good  lively  minnows,  good 
tackle,  a  steady  boat  and,  last  but  not  least,  a  cool  head  and 
patient  judgment.  Flattering  ourselves  that  we  possessed  all 
of  these  requisites,  and  reasonably  assured  of  a  good  day's 
sport,  we  rowed  slowly  up-stream.  The  ground  covered  by  the 
backwater  of  the  pond  had  once  been  heavily  timbered  and 
when  the  high  log  dam  was  built  the  water  had  backed  up 

[27] 


A  Day  on  the  Maquoketa. 


among  the  trees  and  caused  them  to  die ;  therefore  the  pond 
was  full  of  overhanging  trees,  dead  branches,  logs  and  stumps, 
partially  submerged,  which  afforded  ample  cover  for  the  big 
fellows  who  lazily  loafed  in  their  shade,  expectantly  waiting  the 
coming  of  some  venturesome  minnow,  prowling  crawfish  or 
unlucky  frog. 

The  first  open  water  we  entered  we  laid  down  the  paddles, 
put  on  a  couple  of  minnows  and  tossed  them  overboard.  Arthur 
was  the  lucky  fellow  and  hardly  had  his  minnow  struck  the 
water  before  his  line  started  for  the  log  dam,  but  he  struck  too 
quick  and  lost  both  bait  and  bass.  \Ye  were  anxious  to  reach 
a  spot  near  the  head  of  the  pond  where  Crosby  (our  champion 
bass-fisher  that  season)  had  been  catching  some  big  ones.  So 
we  pulled  in  our  lines  and  paddled  on  up-stream.  A  half-hour's 
rowing  brought  us  to  the  spot,  and,  gently  slipping  the  anchor 
over  the  side  of  the  boat,  we  put  on  minnows  and  settled  down 
to  the  morning's  sport. 

It  fell  to  my  lot  to  get  the  first  strike  this  time.  With 
fairly  good  aim  I  sent  my  minnow  close  in  by  an  old  half-rotten 
log  and  anxiously  awaited  results.  There  was  a  miniature 
whirlpool,  the  line  straightened  out  and  then  went  spinning 
away  at  a  lively  rate.  Mindful  of  Arthur's  experience  at  the 
dam,  I  waited  until  I  knew  that  the  greedy  fellow  had  taken 
the  minnow  well  in  his  mouth ;  then,  with  a  sharp  pull,  I  sent 
the  hook  home.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  paralyzed  with  sur- 
prise and  came  to  the  surface  so  willingly  that  I  thought  I  had 
hooked  a  small  one,  but  was  soon  deceived.  As  if  awakened  to 
the  peril  of  the  situation,  he  turned  and  made  a  bolt  for  a  mass 
of  brush  at  the  far  end  of  the  log.  I  held  my  breath  for  a 
moment  for  fear  he  would  tangle  and  get  away ;  however,  I 
managed  to  catch  him  before  he  reached  the  danger  post  and 
turned  him  out  into  the  stream.  I  gave  him  all  the  line  he 
wanted  and  was  prepared  to  pay  any  draft  he  made  upon  my 
well  filled  reel.  Up  and  down,  back  and  across  the  stream  he 
went — darting  for  the  roots  when  he  felt  the  least  slack.  Once 
I  thought  I  had  lost  him,  but  he  was  only  sulking  and  was  off 

[28] 


A  Day  on  the  Maquoketa. 


again,  making  the  water  boil  in  his  frantic  effort  to  rid  him- 
self of  the  hook.  At  last  his  spurts  were  weaker ;  the  narrowing 
circles  of  his  runs  indicated  surrender  and  I  gently  began  to 
reel  him  in  ;  but  he  was  not  yet  on  the  string,  for,  as  I  was  about 
landing  him,  he  broke  away  again  and  renewed  the  battle.  But 
this  was  his  last  struggle  and  I  soon  had  the  flopping  beaut}' 
safe  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  I  was  proud  of  my  achieve- 
ment and  well  I  might  be,  for  he  was  one  of  the  largest  bass  I 
ever  caught.  After  admiring  and  commenting  on  his  beauty, 
size  and  gameness,  we  turned  our  attention  to  the  business  of 
the  day,  and  it  was  not  long  before  each  of  us  had  landed  his 
bass  and  was  clamoring  for  a  chance  at  the  minnow  bucket. 
We  fished  until  the  sun  reached  the  noonday  mark  in  the 
heavens ;  then  ate  our  lunch  and  reluctantly  turned  back  to  the 
landing  place,  with  one  of  the  finest  strings  of  bass  I  ever  saw. 
We  were  thoroughly  satisfied  with  the  morning's  sport,  and  as 
we  trudged  slowly  home  through  the  woods,  with  our  heavy 
string  of  fish,  the  contented  look  upon  our  faces  bore  mute  but 
eloquent  testimony  of  that  perfectly  delightful  day  spent  on 
the  old  Quaker  Mill  Pond. 

—Sports  Afield. 


[29 


An  Evening's  Fishing. 

There  are  but  few  of  us  old  veterans  of  the  field  and  stream 
that  have  not  hundreds  of  pleasant  reminiscences  of  our  days 
afield  carefully  stored  away  for  future  reference ;  and  when  we 
are  sick,  or  want  to  throw  business  cares  off  our  mind,  we  get  a 
good,  comfortable  position,  close  our  eyes  to  shut  out  the  world, 
and  live  these  old  bygones  over  again. 

"It  is  not  all  of  hunting  to  hunt, 
Nor  all  of  fishing  to  fish." 

Every  pleasant  day's  shooting  or  fishing  is  lived  over  and 
over  again  by  the  true  lover  of  these  sports,  and  enjoyed  with 
the  same  zest  every  time. 

I  remember  an  evening's  sport  which  I  had  with  a  black 
bass  years  ago,  on  the  Maquoketa  River,  at  Hopkinton,  Iowa, 
which  stands  out  as  boldly  in  memory  as  though  it  occurred 
but  yesterday.  I  was  filling  a  professional  appointment  in 
the  city,  and  during  my  stay  took  meals  at  Charley  Colyer's  res- 
taurant. On  coming  out  from  dinner  one  day  I  noticed  a  quan- 
tity of  spoon-hooks  displayed  in  the  showcase,  and  I  inquired 
if  he  had  any  sale  for  them. 

"The  fishing  here  is  not  very  good,"  he  replied,  "and 
there  is  probably  not  a  person  in  the  place  that  knows  how  to 
use  a  spoon-hook." 

I  told  him  I  would  hitch  up  my  horse  after  supper,  and  he 
and  I  would  drive  down  by  the  mill  and  try  some  of  his  spoon- 
hooks.  The  sun,  half  an  hour  high,  found  us  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  with  my  tackle  brought  out  and  got  ready.  It  consisted 
of  a  long,  limber  Mississippi  cane,  plain  cotton  chalk  line,  tea 
lead  sinker,  and  one  of  those  aforementioned  spoon-hooks.  The 
sun  had  just  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  in  the  west ;  the  shadows 
of  the  big  cottonwoods  on  the  opposite  shore  were  begin- 
ning to  creep  to  the  edge  of  the  stream ;  the  chilly  breath  of  a 
fall  evening  was  beginning  to  be  felt  by  the  winged  insects 
hovering  over  the  stream,  causing  them  to  drop  benumbed  to 
the  water.  The  dace,  shiners  and  small  bass  were  on  the  watch 

[31] 


An  Evening's  Fishing. 


for  these  unfortunates  and  immediately  took  them  in  out  of  the 
cold.  I  watched  in  vain  for  the  splash  of  an  old  settler,  but  saw 
nothing  to  indicate  his  presence,  except  plenty  of  water  and 
feed — and  why  should  I  expect  to  find  any  here  when  every- 
body says  the  stream  is  "fished  out?"  Glancing  up  and  down 
the  stream  I  noticed,  on  my  left,  about  ten  feet  from  the  shore, 
an  old  stump  around  which  a  lot  of  brush  and  driftwood  had 
lodged.  The  water  looked  very  deep ;  altogether  it  was  a  very 
bassy  looking  piece  of  stream.  I  examined  my  tackle  to  see 
if  everything  was  in  shape  and,  stepping  out  on  the  extreme 
point,  began  casting  so  as  to  troll  the  spoon  in  just  above  the 
edge  of  the  driftwood.  I  made  two  casts  without  any  response 
from  below,  but  at  the  third,  just  as  the  spoon  passed  the  old 
stump,  there  was  a  rush,  a  splash,  and  away  went  the  spoon  to 
the  bottom.  It  did  not  take  long  to  find  out  that  I  was  fast  to 
an  old  bronze-backer,  and  he  was  making  a  strong  fight  against 
my  light  cane  to  reach  his  home  among  the  roots.  After  a 
short,  fierce  fight  of  about  fifteen  minutes,  the  old  fellow  gave 
up  and  came  to  land.  He  was  a  beautiful,  plump  black  bass 
of  the  small-mouth  variety,  weighing  three  pounds. 

Another  cast,  and  I  was  fast  to  the  oldest  inhabitant. 
Round  and  round  he  went,  the  light  cane  bending  in  a  semi- 
circle and  the  line  cutting  the  water  with  a  swish — the  music 
that  entrances  all  lovers  of  this  sport.  After  a  hard  fight  he 
got  away  with  one  of  my  hooks  in  his  jaw  as  a  memento  of  our 
meeting.  At  this  stage  of  the  performance  it  got  too  interest- 
ing for  Charley,  and  he  said  : 

"Hold  on  there,  Doc,  I  will  tie  the  horse  to  the  pasture 
fence,  and  go  down  on  the  point  below  and  help  land  those  big 
fellows." 

I  cast  again  and  hooked  another  large  one,  which  took  the 
same  short-cut  for  the  roots ;  but  that  limber  cane  was  too 
much  for  the  old  fellow  and  after  a  few  minutes'  hard  fight  he 
gave  up  and  I  slowly  trolled  him  to  Charley,  who  grasped  the 
line  and  flipped  him  out.  The  fish  gave  a  dying  kick  and 
dropped  into  a  puddle  of  water.  Down  went  Charley  onto  him 

[32] 


An  Evening's  Fishing. 


with  both  hands,  the  mud  and  water  flying  all  over  him.  but 
he  won  the  battle  and  triumphantly  strung  a  rive-pound  bass 
with  his  mates. 

Thus  the  sport  went  on  until  we  had  five  beauties  on  the 
grass,  and  probably  lost  seven  or  eight  others  on  account  of 
inferior  tackle.  How  the  natives'  eyes  opened  when  we  took 
the  string  of  fish  out  of  our  buggy  in  front  of  the  restaurant ! 
Everyone  had  to  see  them  weighed,  so  they  were  placed  on  the 
scales  and  down  they  went  to  eighteen  pounds.  Everybody 
was  surprised  to  see  five  such  fish  taken  from  the  river  so  near 
town,  and  so  ended  one  of  the  finest  evening's  fishing  that  I 
ever  enjoyed. 

— American  Field. 


"Another  cast  and  the  spoon  dropped  lightly  on  the  water." 


The  Big  Pike. 


Coming  across  the  picture  shown  in  this  article  reminded 
me  of  a  fishing  episode  that  I  played  second  part  in  several 
years  ago  on  a  beautiful  little  stream  in  Iowa. 

Many  lovers  of  field  and  stream  remember  the  big  days 
in  their  shooting  and  fishing  outings,  on  account  of  the  big 
bags  connected  therewith.  I  admit,  I  am  somewhat  prone  to 
the  same  weakness,  but  the  evening's  fishing  in  question  was 
one  of  the  exceptions. 

I  had  been  visiting  the  little  town  of  H for  several 

years  in  the  practice  of  my  profession,  and  while  on  one  of 
these  periodical  visits  was  sitting  at  the  supper  table  in  the 
cafe,  when  I  overheard  the  following  conversation  in  the  ad- 

[35] 


The  Big  Pike. 

joining  salesroom  :  An  old  fellow  that  bottomed  chairs  for  the 
hotels  and  groceries  around  town  dropped  in  saying,  "Charlie, 
don't  Doc  make  his  visit  here  this  week?" 

Charlie — "Yes;  do  you  want  some  work  done?" 

Old  C.  B. — "No;  but  the  boys  are  having  a  great  time 
with  a  big  pike  down  at  the  dam.  Old  \V—  -  has  had  hold  of 
him  twice  this  week,  and  he  smashed  his  tackle  all  to  pieces 
and  got  away.  Jingo !  but  I  would  like  to  see  Doc  hooked  to 
him.  with  that  little  rod  of  his." 

After  delivering  himself  of  this  bit  of  news,  old  C.  B. 
sauntered  out,  and  the  instant  the  door  closed  on  him  good  old 
Charlie  C—  -  came  in  to  put  me  "on."'  I  told  him  I  heard  the 
talk,  and  that  just  as  soon  as  I  swallowed  the  last  mouthful,  we 
would  go  down  to  the  dam  and  interview  Mr.  Pike. 

It  was  a  good  mile  walk  to  the  stream,  and  the  long  shad- 
ows had  crept  across  the  deep  pool  where  the  old  veteran  lived 
when  we  reached  the  bank. 

I  looked  the  ground  over  carefully,  in  order  to  lay  plans 
for  the  battle,  if  successful  in  hooking  him.  and  this  is  about 
the  way  I  summed  it  up  : 

1  believe  the  old  fellow  lives  in  that  dark  water,  under 
those  over-hanging  willows,  among  those  roots  and  snags.  If 
he  finds  himself  fast,  his  first  break  will  be  for  the  open  water 
on  the  further  side;  failing  in  this,  he  will  make  a  rush  for  his 
home  among  the  roots,  and  that  is  where  I  must  head  him  off. 

Jointing  my  little  lancewood,  I  strung  the  line,  put  on  a 
heavy  casting  spoon,  and  was  ready  to  send  out  my  challenge. 

The  first  cast  fell  a  little  short,  but  reeling  in  slowly  across 
the  swift  water,  I  thought  I  saw  a  wake,  and  keeping  my  eye 
on  the  bait  until  it  got  in  front  of  me,  where  the  sun  struck  the 
water,  I  got  a  glimpse  of  the  old  fellow  as  he  turned  away  from 
the  spoon.  I  was  prepared  to  see  a  large  fish,  but  his  size 
startled  me,  and  caused  a  creepy  sensation  to  crawl  up  the  back 
of  my  neck.  I  had  fished  the  stream  for  twenty  years,  but  had 
never  seen  a  fish  half  the  size. 

[36] 


The  Big  Pike. 

Another  cast,  and  the  spoon  dropped  lightly  on  the  water 
just  under  the  willow.  My!  what  a  splash  as  he  cleared  the 
water  with  the  spoon  in  his  mouth !  How  that  little  Chubb  rod 
did  bend  to  the  work !  Out  went  the  line  as  he  struck  for  the 
open  water.  A  little  more  pressure  on  the  reel  and  he  leaped 
clear  out  of  the  water  and.  making;  a  sudden  turn,  rushed  for 
the  roots.  It  required  quick  work  with  the  crank  to  recover  the 
line  and  check  him.  But  a  few  feet  of  grace  were  left  when  I 
got  him  on  the  spring  of  the  rod  again.  ^Yitll  a  few  vicious 
shakes  of  the  head  he  turned  and  dashed  out  again  150  feet. 
The  line  was  getting  short,  and  I  raised  the  tip  and  made  an 
effort  to  head  him  back.  Gently  I  worked  him  in,  as  I  felt  him 
weakening  and  that  the  battle  was  won.  -I  got  glimpses 
of  his  black  back  as  he  shot  through  the  water  this  way  and 
that  way,  fighting  desperately  for  his  liberty. 

\Yhen  within  twenty-five  feet  of  the  dam  he  made  a  sud- 
den dive  for  the  willow  and,  jumping  clear  of  the  water  again, 
shook  the  hook  free  of  his  mouth. 

\Yell !  he  was  a  big  fish  and  a  hard  fighter.  I  was  obliged 
to  use  a  great  deal  of  force  to  keep  him  from  getting  among  the 
snags.  Very  likely  he  was  but  slightly  hooked,  and  my  frail 
hold  on  him  had  torn  out,  by  the  great  force  put  on  the  line. 

Thus  I  figured  it  out  to  myself,  but  never  felt  satisfied  that 
there  was  not  a  little  carelessness  mixed  up  in  my  defeat.  T 
made  a  few  more  forlorn  casts,  hoping  the  old  fellow  would 
give  me  another  chance,  but  he  seemed  to  be  better  satisfied 
than  I  was.  Sadly  I  reeled  up  my  line,  and  slowly  we  wended 
our  way  along  the  shore  toward  the  village.  I  had  but  little 
to  say,  but  dear  old  Charlie  tried  to  make  me  believe  I  had 
handled  him  all  right,  and  that  his  loss  was  no  discredit  to  me. 

This  was  over  twenty  years  ago,  but  I  often  live  it  all  over 
again,  and  enjoy  the  fight  almost  as  much  as  I  did  on  that 
memorable  evening  on  the  banks  of  the  Maquoketa. 

— Outdoor  Life. 


37] 

M  QO 


A  Novel  Muskrat  Hunt. 

Sitting  alone  in  my  library  tonight,  my  thoughts  ramble 
back  to  a  time  more  than  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  this  turn 
of  memory's  wheel  brings  to  view  the  records  of  a  few  weeks 
spent  in  Calhoun  County,  Iowa.  It  was  some  time  early  in 
the  month  of  March  and  I  drifted  into  the  little  prairie  town 
of  Lake  City,  in  Western  Iowa.  The  term  "drifted"  is  well 
suited  to  the  occasion ;  for,  as  the  train  whirled  along  towards 
the  end  of  my  railroad  journey,  I  looked  out  of  the  car  window 
across  the  boundless  level  prairie  to  the  northward  and  it 
appeared  as  though  at  least  one-half  of  the  country  was  under 
water.  I  had  written  to  a  Lake  City  party  to  have  a  team 
meet  me  at  the  nearest  railroad  station,  knowing  that  the  stage 
only  made  the  trip  once  a  week,  and  when  I  stepped  off  the 
train  at  Carroll  I  found  my  man  waiting  for  me  at  the  end  of 
the  platform,  with  a  good,  strong  spring  wagon  and  a  pair  of 
big  mules.  I  immediately  began  to  kick  on  the  mule  part  of 
the  outfit,  as,  at  that  time,  I  harbored  a  sort  of  grudge  against 
these  long-eared  slurs  on  horseflesh,  but  the  driver  said,  "Why, 
man,  there  isn't  a  horse  team  in  the  state  that  could  take  us 
through  that  twenty  miles  of  mud,  water  and  slough  in  as  good 
shape  as  these  little  mules.  Why,  I  can  drive  them  through  a 
slough  where  there  is  nothing  but  long  grass  to  walk  on  and 
only  their  ears  in  sight."  And  before  we  reached  our  destina- 
tion I  found  that  my  Jehu's  judgment  was  good  and  the  little 
long  ears  as  good  as  his  judgment. 

Striking  out  across  the  trackless  prairie,  we  stuck  to  the 
highest  ground  as  much  as  possible,  but,  even  then,  were  at 
least  a  third  of  the  time  in  water.  Several  times  the  mules 
were  off  their  feet  and  had  to  swim  for  it ;  but  they  showed  no 
fear  and  never  refused  to  go  where  guided.  We  drove  up  to  the 
hotel  in  Lake  City  at  9  o'clock  that  night  a  cold  hungry  pair, 
but  a  hot  supper  and  a  good  bed  put  me  in  shape;  and  when  I 
looked  out  of  my  little  window  the  next  morning  while  dress- 

[39] 


A  Novel  Muskrat  Hunt. 


ing.  and  saw  several  flocks  of  mallards  circling  over  a  pond  a 
half  mile  away,  my  prospective  stay  in  the  little  village  looked 
much  brighter  than  on  the  night  before.  I  was  late  getting 
down  to  the  dining  room,  and,  while  waiting  for  my  breakfast 
order,  I  noticed  a  bright  young  man  across  the  table  from  me 
that  I  at  once  took  a  liking  to,  and,  when  he  commenced  to  talk- 
gun  and  shoot,  it  was  not  long  before  an  attachment  sprang  up 
between  us.  This  gentleman  (whom  I  will  call  Steve)  was 
teacher  of  the  town  school  and  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most 
jovial  companions  and  best  shots  that  I  ever  struck  up  an 
acquaintance  with. 

As  the  days  lengthened,  the  ducks,  geese  and  cranes  came 
in  from  the  south  by  thousands ;  the  ponds  and  prairie  were 
covered  with  them,  and  wherever  there  was  a  piece  of  burnt 
land  a  flock  of  white  cranes  could  be  seen  grazing  over  it — 
looking  at  a  distance  like  a  flock  of  sheep.  To  get  a  bag  of 
ducks  in  that  locality  was  an  easy  matter,  as  there  were  but 
few  fields  and  consequently  but  few  feeding  grounds  for  them 
to  resort  to.  But  to  stalk  those  white  and  sandhill  cranes  on 
the  open  prairie  and  get  within  range  was  not  an  easy  matter. 
Many  a  time  have  I  crawled  over  the  wet,  soggy  prairie  for  a 
half  mile — only  to  have  them  get  up  just  out  of  range. 

One  evening,  as  I  sat  dozing  over  the  stove  in  the  little 
hotel  office,  Steve  rushed  in,  saying,  "I  just  saw  a  farmer  over 
at  the  store.  He  says  the  ice  is  going  out  of  the  big  slough 
and  there's  great  muskrat  shooting.  Be  ready  for  an  early 
start  in  the  morning.  Don't  forget  to  have  a  good  lunch  put 
up  and  have  the  little  rifle  ready.  Good  night !  Be  sure  and  be 
ready." 

The  team  was  at  the  door  in  the  morning  by  the  time  I 
had  breakfast,  and  we  were  soon  on  the  road  to  the  shoot- 
ing ground.  \Yhen  fairly  started  I  told  Steve  that  if  I  had  not 
had  a  good  deal  of  confidence  in  him  I  should  never  have 
started  out  on  such  a  trip,  as  the  idea  of  shooting  muskrats  for 
sport  reminded  me  very  much  of  a  snipe  hunt  I  once  took  part 
in,  in  which  I  was  given  the  post  of  first  bag-holder.  Steve 

[40] 


A  Novel  Muskrat   Hunt. 


looked  up  laughingly  and  replied,  "I  see,  old  fellow.  You  think 
I  am  playing  a  joke  on  you.  But  it's  plain  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  this  kind  of  shooting.  You  see,  the  muskrats  in 
this  country  live  in  houses  on  the  big  sloughs  during  the 
winter,  and  when  the  ice  breaks  up  in  the  spring  they  go  clown 
the  outlets  with  the  floating  ice  to  the  river,  where  they  pair 
off  for  the  summer  season.  These  outlets  are  thirty  or  forty 
rods  wide  in  the  spring  when  the  water  is  high,  and,  with  the 
wind  blowing  hard,  it  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  shoot  a  muskrat 
off  one  of  these  bobbing  cakes  of  ice  with  a  rifle." 

Reaching  the  slough,  we  stopped  near  the  outlet  and 
jxit  up  our  team  with  a  farmer.  Steve  got  the  farmer's 
boy  and  dog  to  go  with  us ;  the  farmer  to  skin  the 
rats  (for  their  hides)  and  the  latter  to  retrieve  them 
from  the  water  when  killed.  Jumping  into  an  old  skiff.  Steve 
paddled  over  to  the  other  side,  leaving  the  boy  with  me  (to 
initiate  me  into  the  mysteries  of  rat  shooting).  Selecting  a 
sheltered  place,  we  made  a  blind  for  ourselves  .out  of  dead 
rushes  and  grass,  and,  crouching  down  behind  it,  waited  for 
our  game  to  come  along.  We  hadn't  been  long  in  our  blind 
before  the  boy  nudged  me,  and.  pointing  up  stream,  said  : 

"There  comes  one — on  that  little  cake  of  ice.  He  is  yours, 
because  he's  nearest  your  side  of  the  stream."  Looking  away 
out  over  the  water  in  the  direction  the  boy  pointed,  I  saw  a 
small  cake  of  ice  bobbing  along  over  the  water  with  a  little 
dark  spot  on  it  that  one  would  never  think  was  a  muskrat. 
Raising  the  rifle  to  my  shoulder,  I  took  a  careful  aim  at  the 
object  and  pulled  the  trigger ;  the  dark  spot  slipped  off  the  ice 
at  the  crack  of  the  gun  and  disappeared  beneath  the  waves. 
The  next  passenger  fell  to  the  lot  of  Steve,  and,  at  the  crack 
of  his  little  .2'2,  it  rolled  off  its  perch,  gave  a  few  expiring  kicks, 
and  floated  quietly  on  down-stream.  When  it  came  opposite 
our  blind  the  dog  plunged  into  the  icy  water  and  soon  returned 
with  a  big  sleek  muskrat  in  his  mouth,  which  the  boy  took 
charge  of — deftly  removing  the  little  animal's  warm  winter 
coat. 

[41] 


A  Novel  Muskrat  Hunt. 


For  an  hour  or  two  the  sport  was  lively,  one  crack  follow- 
ing another  in  quick  succession,  first  from  Steve's  blind  and 
then  from  mine — the  shooting  being  about  equally  divided. 
Then  the  wind  began  getting  stronger  and  colder,  the  waves 
livelier,  the  shooting  more  difficult,  the  game  more  wary  and 
our  shots  more  scattering.  No  more  rats  being  in  sight,  I 
crawled  down  behind  the  blind,  to  get  out  of  the  raw  wind. 
My  little  partner  looked  up  at  me,  enquiringly,  and  said :  "Say, 
Mister,  I  guess  you  never  shot  muskeys  any  before,  'cause  you 
don't  shoot  like  Mr.  C.  over  there.  He  don't  shoot  till  the  ice 
cakes  get  into  a  quiet  piece  of  water,  so  they  won't  wobble — 
then  he  gets  his  muskey  most  every  time.  My!  but  I  tell  you. 
us  boys  make  it  lively  for  the  muskeys  while  they  are  on 
the  Big  Slough.  They  commence  gathering  rushes  and  build- 
ing their  houses  as  soon  as  they  come  up  from  the  river  and  as 
soon  as  they  get  their  houses  done  we  begin  trapping  them  and 
trap  until  the  slough  freezes  over ;  then  we  go  after  them  with 
spears." 

Here  I  interrupted  the  little  man  and  enquired  what  he 
meant  by  spearing  muskrats.  "Why,  didn't  you  ever  spear 
muskeys?  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  it's  just  lots  of  fun.  When  the 
ice  is  thick  enough  to  bear,  we  take  our  spears  and  an  axe,  and, 
going  to  a  likely-looking  house,  two  of  the  boys  with  spears 
stand  nearby  where  they  can  watch  in  all  directions,  while  the 
other  one  pounds  on  the  house  with  an  axe  to  drive  the 
muskeys  out.  They  swim  along  close  under  the  ice  and  we 
chugs  the  spear  through  the  thin  ice  and  pins  'em  fast.  Do  you 
see  that  cake  coming  down  with  two  of  'em  on?"  Sure  enough, 
there  they  were — two  big  fellows  on  one  small  cake  and  close 
enough  together  to  offer  a  chance  for  a  double.  At  the  crack 
of  my  gun  both  rolled  into  the  water ;  but  what  was  my  sur- 
prise when  Steve  rose  in  his  blind  and  shouted  across :  "Say. 
old  man.  what  do  you  think  of  my  double?"  We  had  both 
fired  so  close  together  that  it  had  sounded  like  a  single  report. 

\Ve  had  a  few  more  shots — some  of  which  we  missed  and 
some  of  which  were  more  successful ;  but,  at  length,  the  rising 

[42] 


A  Novel  Muskrat  Hunt. 


wind  so  increased  the  size  of  the  waves  that  the  rats  stopped 
running  for  the  day.  Consulting  my  watch,  I  was  surprised  to 
find  it  was  noon,  and,  calling  the  time  of  day  across  to  Steve, 
he  loaded  his  rats  in  the  skiff  and  paddled  over.  Counting  the 
pelts,  we  found  we  had  twenty-six  to  show  for  our  morning's 
sport,  and  I  doubt  if  I  ever  averaged  one  kill  out  of  ten  shots. 
Taking  our  lunch  up  to  the  farm-house,  we  got  some  hot  coffee, 
and,  after  a  good  dinner,  started  on  the  homeward  drive.  I 
had  to  acknowledge  to  Steve  that  the  shooting  had  been  dif- 
ficult enough  to  be  interesting,  and  I  certainly  have  him  to 
thank  for  one  of  the  most  novel  and  pleasant  day's  sport  of 
my  life. 

—Sports  Afield. 


[43] 


A  Rabbit  Hunt  on  the  Prairie. 

It  is  a  cold,  dreary  evening.  Storm  clouds  are  scudding 
down  from  the  north,  shutting  out  the  last  rays  of  the  declin- 
ing light,  as  the  gloomy  October  night  closes  in  on  the  city. 
The  bright  sparkle  of  the  electric  lights  here  and  there  only 
serves  to  increase  the  gloom  beyond  their  circle  of  radiance. 
Out  of  the  darkness  comes  the  screech  of  a  steam  whistle,  the 
rattle  of  omnibus  and  dray,  the  rumble  of  the  cable  cars, 
the  bark  of  a  dog  and  the  gabble  of  human  voices — sounds  of 
city  life  that  grate  harshly  on  the  ear  of  one  who  loves  nature 
and  her-  ways.  Turning  away  from  the  window  in  disgust,  I 
poke  the  center  log  nearer  the  fire's  heart  and  allow  imagina- 
tion to  carry  me  away  from  these  disagreeable  surroundings. 

I  see  a  pretty  white  cottage,  standing  on  a  rise  of  ground 
back  from  the  shore  of  a  beautiful  little  lake  in  Northern  Iowa. 
The  trailing  morning  glory  that  covers  the  cozy  little  porch 
shuts  out  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun  that  are  reflected  from 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  lake.  It  is  the  month  of  October.  I 
am  comfortably  seated  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  porch,  dreamily 
enjoying  the  scene,  the  beautiful  sunset  and  listening  to  the 
voices  of  approaching  night.  The  chirp  of  the  cricket  from 
under  the  step  at  my  feet,  the  cry  of  a  night-hawk,  as  he  darts 
downward  in  his  circling  flight  overhead,  the  bullfrog  chorus 
that  floats  up  from  the  lake  shore,  the  uneasy  twitter  of  the 
birds  in  the  trees,  the  hoot  of  an  owl  over  on  the  point — all. tell 
the  tale  of  the  day's  close  and  the  dropping  of  night's  curtain. 

"Hello,  Will!  What  are  you  hiding  in  there  for?  Don't 
you  want  to  go  rabbit  hunting  tomorrow?" 

"Well.  George,  I  guess  you  almost  caught  me  building  air 
castles  in  Fairyland.  Yes,  I'm  ready  for  anything  that  prom- 
ises sport,  for  my  time  with  you  is  getting  short.'' 

"All  right.  Will.  I  will  be  around  with  the  team  before 
sunrise  ;  be  ready  and  have  a  lunch  put  up." 

I  45  1 


A  Rabbit  Hunt  on  the  Prairie. 


The  sun  is  just  peeping  over  the  hills  in  the  east  as  I 
climb  into  the  wagon  beside  George  in  the  early  morning.  The 
night  has  been  cold,  the  air  is  sharp  and  frosty;  the  grass 
rustles  under  the  horses'  feet  as  we  drive  across  the  prairie 
towards  the  big  slough.  I  notice  that  George  has  a  hired  man 
and  boy  on  the  front  seat,  a  roll  of  smooth  fence-wire  in  the 
wagon  and  an  extra  horse  leading  behind.  I  figure  it  out  that 
he  is  going  to  do  some  work  on  the  pasture  fence,  and  is  taking 
the  wire  and  hired  help  along  for  that  purpose.  On  arriving  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  big  slough,  the  team  is  stopped,  one  end 
of  the  wire  is  fastened  to  the  whiffletree  of  the  single  horse,  the 
boy  takes  the  horse  by  the  bit  and  leads  him  across  the  swale — 
running  out  150  feet  of  the  wire;  then  he  is  headed  in  the  same 
direction  and  abreast  of  the  team.  I  could  not  curb  my  curiosity 
any  longer;  so  inquired  of  George  what  this  means  and  what 
it  has  to  do  with  our  proposed  rabbit  hunt. 

"Well,  Will,  I  see  you  are  green  in  this  business,  so  I'll 
have  to  give  you  a  few  pointers.  In  the  first  place,  we  are  not 
going  to  do  any  hunting,  but  we  are  going  to  make  the  rabbits 
do  the  hunting.  Go  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  slough  and 
walk  about  ten  feet  ahead  of  the  single  horse  and  I  will  walk 
ahead  of  the  team ;  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  and  take  care  of  all 
the  game  that  that  gets  up  in  front  of  your  half  of  the  wire. 
\Yhen  we  start  the  horses,  the  wire  will  wake  up  all  the  game 
between  us  and  make  them  hunt  a  new  locality ;  so  look  out 
for  almost  anything — and  don't  get  rattled." 

The  drivers  start  up  the  horses,  and  the  hunt  is  on.  A 
cottontail  springs  from  the  grass,  and,  at  the  crack  of  George's 
little  16-bore,  rolls  over  and  is  tossed  into  the  wagon. 

"Hold  on !"  said  I.    "Look !  Look !" 

"Give  it  to  him !"  says  George,  "that's  a  jack-rabbit." 

I  was  carrying  my  gun  at  ready,  and,  bringing  it  quickly 
to  my  shoulder,  sent  a  charge  of  shot  after  the  flying  jack;  but 
I  shot  behind  him,  and  he  circled  across  toward  George,  who 
neatly  bowled  him  over.  George  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  a 
jack  before,  and  I  told  him  I  had  been  on  a  hunt  in  Kansas 

[46] 


A  Rabbit  Hunt  on  the  Prairie. 


many  years  ago  and  shot  several,  but  it  had  been  so  long  since 
I  had  seen  one  that  this  fellow  looked  as  big  as  a  calf  to  me. 
A  few  minutes  after  the  jack-rabbit  incident  I  met  with  another 
surprise.  I  was  tramping  along  through  the  tall  grass — think- 
ing of  the  big  jack  I  had  missed — when  just  ahead  of  me. and 
all  around  my  feet  there  arose,  with  booming  of  wings,  a  large 
covey  of  full-grown  prairie-chickens.  I  didn't  get  rattled  this 
time,  for  I  had  been  hunting  these  fellows  for  two  weeks,  and, 
selecting  my  birds,  dropped  a  pair  in  good  shape.  We  were 
now  at  the  end  of  the  slough,  and,  crossing  over  a  hill  to  the 
south,  struck  the  head  of  another.  This  one,  though  much 
smaller  than  the  one  we  had  just  hunted,  had  a  very  heavy 
growth  of  grass  and  furnished  better  shooting.  Rabbits  got  up 
every  few  rods,  and,  being  so  suddenly  aroused  from  their  mid- 
day siesta,  would  make  a  jump  or  two,  and  then  stop  to  recover 
from  their  surprise — offering  the  finest  kind  of  a  shot.  We 
struck  a  piece  of  heavy  grass  near  the  head  of  the  slough,  and 
as  the  wire  went  into  it,  up  went  a  flock  of  nearly  a  hundred 
chickens.  They  divided,  part  crossing  in  front  of  George,  and 
the  rest  of  the  flock  swinging  around  in  close  range  of  me ;  but, 
while  George  dropped  his  pair  in  good  style,  I  had  to  be  content 
with  one  bird  and  a  hatful  of  feathers.  This  was  the  last  shot 
of  the  day,  and  when  we  reached  the  high  ground  we  pulled 
up  in  the  shelter  of  a  big  hay-rick  for  dinner.  Unhitching  the 
team,  we  tied  them  to  the  wagon,  pulled  some  hay  from  the 
stacks  for  them,  spread  our  lunch  on  the  grass,  and  enjoyed  a 
meal  as  only  hungry  hunters  can  enjoy,  with  the  sauce  of  a 
successful  hunt  for  an  appetizer. 

"Well,  Will,"  says  George,  "how  do  you  like  this  kind -of 
hunting?" 

"Well,  George,  I  don't  think  I  ever  enjoyed  a  better  morn- 
ing's shoot  in  my  life.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm  about  it, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  you  never  know  what  kind  of  game  you 
are  going  to  flush,  where  it  is  going  to  get  up  or  where  it  is 
going  to  go." 

[47] 


A  Rabbit  Hunt  on  the  Prairie. 


After  finishing  our  lunch,  we  loaf  around  in  the  warm  Oc- 
tober sun  and  talk  over  the  hits  and  misses  of  the  morning. 
until  :!  o'clock,  when  we  hitch  up  and  start  across  the  prairie 
for  home.  As  we  jog  along  towards  the  little  cottage  on  the 
lake  where  I  have  made  my  home  during  my  two  weeks'  vaca- 
tion, a  feeling  of  sadness  creeps  over  me.  for  I  cannot  help 
reading  the  signs  that  are  all  around  and  about  me.  The  haze 
of  Indian  summer,  the  shaggy  tops  of  the  golden-rod,  the  little 
white  bunches  of  gum  on  the  resin-weed,  and  the  sharp  frosty 
nights  and  mornings,  all  tell  the  tale.  It  is  the  last  dying  effort 
of  summer.  Winter  will  soon  be  with  us  and  spread  her  mantle 
of  white  over  these  brown  prairies,  and  another  long  year  must 
roll  around,  with  its  humdrum  life  and  hard  work,  before  I  can 
again  visit  this  charmed  spot  and  enjoy  the  health-giving 
sports  of  lake  and  stubble.  Many  years  have  passed  since  that 
day's  rabbit  hunt:  but  never  do  the  closing  days  of  October 
roll  around  without  my  recalling  all  the  incidents  of  that  novel 
hunt. 

— Sports  Afield. 


"A  comfortable  position  on   the  old  butternut." 

A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  satisfactorily  to  myself 
why  it  is  that  scenes  and  incidents  transpiring  in  the  early 
days  of  my  life  remain  as  fresh  in  memory  and  are  more 
vivid  today  than  they  were  twenty  years  ago.  Very  likely  it 
is  because  "the  morning  of  life  is  full  of  purity,  imagery  and 
harmony."  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  know  that  as  we  advance 
in  years  the  scenes  and  incidents  of  early  life  come  back  to 
us  as  fresh  and  well  defined  as  though  they  occurred  but 
yesterday. 

Times  have  changed  and  many  matters  of  far  greater 
importance  have  taken  place  in  my  life  since  that  autumn 


A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 


day  when  George  and  I  enjoyed  the  hunt  that  I  shall  make 
a  weak  attempt  to  describe ;  but  every  incident  connected 
with  it  is  as  fresh  in  my  mind  as  though  it  were  but  yester- 
day. We  had  decided  to  take  a  trip  up  the  creek  after  gray 
squirrels,  which  were  reported  to  be  unusually  abundant  in 
our  section  of  the  country  that  year.  I  had  spent  the  evening 
with  George  at  his  home,  and  it  was  arranged  that  we  should 
meet  on  the  bank  of  the  creek  above  my  home  the  next  morn- 
ing at  daylight ,  row  up  to  the  old  spring  in  our  skiff  and 
begin  our  hunt  from  there.  When  I  arrived  at  the  place  of 
rendezvous  I  soon  discovered  that  I  was  the  first  on  hand,  so 
I  took  a  seat  on  an  old  stump  and  enjoyed  the  awakening  of 
day  while  waiting  for  George  to  show  up.  It  was  an  ideal 
September  morning,  and  how  distinctly  I  remember  it !  How 
invigorating  the  fresh,  crisp,  frosty  morning  air  was !  All  was 
quiet  except  the  crickets  chirping  among  the  willows  along 
the  bank  and  the  continual  murmurs  of  the  waters  of  the 
creek,  as  they  rippingly  flowed  over  their  rocky  bed  at  my 
feet. 

Soon  gray  streaks  appeared  in  the  east,  gradually  expand- 
ing and  changing  into  colors  of  brighter  hue.  As  the  day 
advanced  the  chirping  of  the  crickets  gave  way  to  the  more 
melodious  warblings  of  the  songsters  in  the  surrounding  trees 
as  they  awakened  with  the  day.  What  a  morning  to  send  the 
blood  tingling  through  the  veins  of  a  sportsman  and  a  lover 
of  nature,  and  make  him  feel  happy  and  thankful  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  enjoying  such  a  morning  out  in  the  country,  away 
from  the  stifling,  smoke-tainted  air  of  the  city.  The  sun  was 
already  making  its  appearance  over  the  hill  on  the  other  side 
of  the  creek  when  George  came  in  sight,  with  his  gun  over 
his  shoulder  and  his  boat  paddle  in  his  hand. 

"Hello,  old  man!  Is  this  what  you  call  daybreak?"  said 
I,  as  he  stopped  on  the  bank  beside  me. 

"Well,  Will,  I  couldn't  help  it;  I  set  the  alarm  clock  for 
three,  but  I  don't  believe  it  went  off." 

[50] 


A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 


"Well,  old  fellow,  I  am  going  to  take  your  word  for  that, 
as  I  am  sure  you  like  hunting  as  well  as  I  do,  and  I  know  you 
are  hunter  enough  to  be  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  early  sun 
gets  the  game,  when  after  the  little  grays,  so  let  us  be  off." 

A  delightful  half  hour's  row  landed  us  at  the  old  spring, 
and  pulling  our  boat  up  on  the  sandy  point,  we  stowed'  the 
lunch  and  coats  away  under  the  seats,  and  were  soon  wend- 
ing our  way  up  the  steep  hill  toward  the  heavy  timber.  Reach- 
ing the  top  of  the  hill,  we  stopped,  and  turning  around,  looked 
down  on  the  little  stream  at  our  feet,  and  our  eyes  followed 
its  winding  course  until  it  disappeared  among  the  brown  hills 
in  the  distance,  a  mere  thread  of  silver.  Oh,  what  a  picture ! 
To  one  who  is  not  a  lover  and  worshipper  of  nature  it  is  useless 
to  attempt  a  description  of  such  scenes,  but  to  one  who  is  a 
lover  of  God's  outdoors,  every  such  experience  draws  him 
nearer  to  the  Creator. 

George  awakened  me  from  my  day  dream  with  "Come 
on,  Will;  I  love  these  panoramic  studies  of  nature  as  much 
as  you  do ;  but  we  will  have  to  move  on  if  we  get  any  game 
today."  We  turned  to  the  left  down  an  old  wood  road  toward 
some  walnut  and  hickory  trees  farther  up  the  ridge.  We  had 
gone  but  a  few  rods,  when  I  espied  a  gray  squirrel  perched 
on  a  limb  near  the  top  of  a  big  hickory.  I  raised  my  gun 
quickly  and  fired;  just  as  he  leaped  to  another  tree,  disap- 
pearing in  a  hole,  and  I  scored  a  clean  miss. 

"Well,  you  are  a  dandy,  Will ;  I  thought  you  could  shoot," 
exclaimed  George. 

"Don't  crow  until  you  get  out  of  the  woods,  George,  for 
you  are  liable  to  have  a  miss  or  two  to  your  credit  before 
night,"  I  replied. 

We  then  separated,  agreeing  to  meet  at  the  boat  for  lunch. 
I  struck  off  into  the  deep  wood,  visiting  my  favorite  old  squir- 
rel trees,  and  though  I  found  quite  a  number  of  the  little  reds, 
I  found  nothing  that  wore  a  coat  of  fur  the  color  I  was  look- 
ing for.  I  had  been  tramping  nearly  an  hour,  and  had  heard 

[51] 


A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 


the  report  of  George's  old  twelve-bore  several  times,  before 
I  got  another  shot.  Approaching  a  large  walnut,  I  heard  a 
rustling  in  the  leaves  behind  the  tree.  Suddenly  a  big  fellow 
darted  from  behind  the  tree  and  started  up  it  like  a  gray 
streak.  This  time  when  my  gun  cracked  the  squirrel  dropped ; 
picking  him  up  I  smoothed  down  the  sleek  fur  and  slipped 
him  into  my  pocket.  As  I  did  so  a  nut  dropped  from  the  tree 
over  my  head,  and  glancing  up,  I  saw  another  squirrel  mak- 
ing for  a  hole  near  the  top  of  the  same  tree ;  but  he  was  out 
of  sight  before  I  was  able  to  cover  him.  I  knew  he  had  left 
his  breakfast  unfinished,  and  would  be  sure  to  come  out  again 
as  soon  as  he  thought  the  coast  was  clear,  so  I  took  a  seat  on 
an  old  crooked  butter-nut,  where  I  had  a  good  view  of  the 
hole,  and  awaited  developments.  In  a  short  time  his  squirrel- 
ship  poked  his  nose  out  of  the  hole,  and  not  seeing  anything 
to  frighten  him,  he  emerged  from  his  retreat,  and  leaped  to 
a  limb  on  a  nearby  tree.  Almost  the  same  instant  that  he 
struck  the  limb  my  gun  cracked  and  squirrel  number  two  was 
added  to  my  bag.  I  had  learned  by  experience,  long  before, 
not  to  do  too  much  hunting  when  out  after  this  kind  of  game 
in  the  fall  during  the  nut  season.  It  is  much  better  to  find  a 
good  location,  where  there  are  plenty  of  nuts,  some  good 
squirrel  trees,  and  then  sit  down,  keep  quiet,  and  let  the 
squirrels  do  the  hunting.  I  have  often  gone  into  the  woods 
with  others,  and  by  following  this  plan  got  a  fine  string  of 
squirrels ;  while  they  would  tramp  around  all  day,  and  at 
night,  have  a  very  small  bag  to  show  for  their  hard  day's 
hunt.  I  saw  that  I  was  myself  in  a  comfortable  position  on 
the  old  butter-nut  again,  and  was  ready  to  give  the  first  gray 
a  warm  welcome,  that  might  be  bold  enough  to  toss  me  a 
nervous  good  morning. 

The  sun  had  climbed  up  above  the  tree  tops,  and  was 
stealing  down  through  the  branches  and  scattering  leaves ; 
dodging  here  and  there,  like  a  child  playing  at  hide-and-seek. 
From  where  I  was  sitting  I  could  look  across  the  creek  val- 

[52] 


A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 


ley  to  the  hills  on  the  other  side,  and  enjoy  all  the  beauties 
of  the  autumn  foliage,  as  it  shaded  up  from  the  bank  of  the 
creek  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  flaming  colors  of  the  maples, 
thrown  into  relief  by  the  green  surrounding  them  and  shaded 
off  into  restful  effects  by  the  orange  yellow  of  the  hickories 
higher  up,  and  winding  diagonally  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  was 
an  old  worm-fence,  bordered  on  either  side  by  a  fringe  of 
deep  red  sumach,  beautifully  setting  off  this  lovely  autumn 
picture.  But  a  rustle  in  the  leaves  aroused  me  from  contem- 
plation, and,  turning  my  head,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  sly 
old  gray  as  he  darted  around  to  the  opposite  side  of  a  burr 
oak,  on  his  way  to  the  top.  Nor  did  he  stop  until  the  topmost 
branch  was  reached.  There  he  balanced  himself  on  a  spring- 
ing limb,  like  an  acrobat,  hesitated  a  second,  and  leaped  to  a  big 
walnut.  The  branch  swayed  under  his  weight  as  he  struck  it, 
and  before  he  could  recover  to  run,  I  got  a  snap  shot  at  him. 
Stowing  him  away  with  his  mates,  I  went  back  to  my  seat, 
cocked  the  gun  and  was  ready  for  the  next  one.  I  hadn't  been 
quiet  more  than  ten  minutes  before  a  walnut  dropped  through 
the  branches  from  over  my  head,  and,  casting  my  eyes  upward, 
I  saw  a  gray  tail  hanging  down  over  a  large  limb.  I  knew 
the  owner  must  be  close  by,  and,  getting  my  gun  in  position, 
I  kept  a  close  watch  on  the  spot.  In  a  short  time  a  little  nose 
came  cautiously  out  from  behind  the  limb.  I  covered  it,  and 
as  the  top  of  the  head  appeared  I  pulled  the  trigger,  and  my 
fourth  squirrel  came  tumbling  down  through  the  limbs,  almost 
striking  me  on  the  head.  The  sun  had  climbed  to-  that  position 
in  the  heavens  that  marks  the  dinner  hour,  and  the  inner 
man  was  demanding  attention,  so  I  lay  my  course  for  the 
boat  to  meet  George. 

I  found  him  sitting  on  an  old  log  waiting  for  me,  and 
when  I  came  up,  I  inquired  what  luck. 

"I  got  three,  but  I  got  all  I  saw." 

"I  can  beat  you  one,  George.  Just  take  a  look  at  these 
four  beauties." 

[53] 


A  Day  With  the  Squirrels. 


\Ve  spread  our  eatables  out  on  a  big  flat  rock  near  the 
spring,  and  went  at  it  as  only  two  hungry  hunters  can.  How 
we  did  enjoy  that  bread  and  butter,  cold  ham  and  pickles, 
with  good,  pure  water  for  drink,  and  delicious  frosted  grapes 
— picked  from  the  vine  over  our  heads — for  dessert.  No  pam- 
pered son  of  wealth  ever  enjoyed  a  meal  at  Delmonico's  as 
we  did  that  simple  lunch,  out  there  on  the  sunny  hillside, 
reclining  on  our  couch  of  leaves.  After  lunch  we  lay  around 
and  chatted  until  the  declining  sun  warned  us  that  we  must 
be  moving  toward  home.  We  picked  up  our  duffle,  loaded 
it  into  the  boat  and  pushed  her  off  the  shore.  There  was  a 
soft,  balmy  breeze  blowing  from  the  south,  just  enough  to 
raise  a  little  ripple  on  the  water,  that  beat  a  soothing  lullaby 
against  the  prow  of  the  boat,  as  we  drifted  and  paddled  lazily 
along  with  the  current.  We  were  in  no  hurry ;  so  lay  back  on 
the  seats  enjoying  the  lovely  Indian  summer  afternoon  to 
our  heart's  content,  pulling  up  at  the  landing  near  my  house 
about  6  o'clock,  tired,  but  satisfied  and  happy,  as  true  sports- 
men always  are  at  the  close  of  a  successful  day  in  the  wood 
or  on  the  stream. 

I  have  spent  many  happy  days  with  rod  and  gun,  in  the 
lovely  lake-park  country  lying  between  Forest  City,  la.,  and 
Waterville,  Minn.,  and  although  I  have  fished  and  hunted  in 
many  other  sections  of  the  country,  yet,  when  the  hot  days 
of  summer  come,  and  I  get  tired  of  business,  tired  of  eating 
and  tired  of  everything  else,  I  turn  my  eyes  wistfully  toward 
this  land  of  lovely  lakes,  beautiful  streams  and  grand  old 
woods — the  place  where  George  and  I  spent  a  day  with  the 
squirrels. 

— Omaha  World-Herald. 


54] 


My  First  Ride  on  an  Ice  Boat. 

It  may  be  a  bit  of  landscape,  a  gun,  dog,  rod,  boat,  or  a 
wild  stormy  day,  that  awakens  the  echoes  in  the  cob-webbed 
galleries  of  Memory's  store-house  and  brings  back  to  life 
some  pleasant  incident  of  bygone  days.  The  cold,  wintry  bast 
that  sweeps  around  the  house  corner  tonight  and  drives  against 
the  window  panes,  reminds  me  of  my  first  ride  on  an  ice  boat. 
I  was  spending  a  few  weeks  visiting  in  Wisconsin,  and  was 
stopping  with  a  relative  who  kept  a  hotel  in  one  of  those 
pretty  lake  resort  towns  for  which  the  state  is  noted.  As  is 
well  known,  these  are  very  pleasant  resorts  in  summer,  but 
the  dullest  of  places  during  the  long  winter.  I  had  hunted, 
fished  through  the  ice,  «kated,  and  taken  a  hand  in  all  the 
winter  sports  of  the  place  except  ice  boating.  There  were 
only  two  or  three  boats  on  the  lake  and  I  was  afraid  I  would 
have  to  go  away  without  enjoying  this  long-wished-for  pleas- 
ure ;  but,  having  a  full  share  of  patience,  I  awaited  my  oppor- 
tunity, and  it  came  at  last.  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the 
little  village  hotel,  enjoying  my  after-breakfast  cigar,  one  cold 
morning,  when  George  W.  dropped  in  and  invited  me  to 
"take  a  scoot"  with  him  across  the  lake  on  his  ice  boat.  I 
quickly  accepted  the  invitation,  as  it  was  just  what  I  had 
been  waiting  for — for  weeks.  A  short,  brisk  walk,  and  we 
were  at  the  landing,  and  getting  the  "Flyer"  ready  for  the 
trip.  Things  were  soon  made  shipshape,  the  big  white  sails 
hoisted,  and,  as  we  slipped  away  from  the  shore,  my  compan- 
ion told  me  to  get  down  out  of  the  way  of  the  boom  and  cling 
to  a  rope  that  ran  along  the  center  of  the  boat  from  stern  to 
bow. 

The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  from  the  northwest,  the 
thermometer  down  to  12  degrees  below  zero,  and  the  air  full 
of  snow  and  frost.  The  farther  we  got  out  on  the  open  lake, 
the  faster  we  went,  until  it  seemed  to  me  were  flying  instead 
of  sailing.  The  wind  hummed  through  the  rigging,  the  sails 

[55] 


My  First  Ride  on  an  Ice  Boat. 


snapped,  and  occasionally  we  would  strike  a  patch  of  white 
shell-ice,  through  which  we  would  plough  our  way  with  a 
roar — the  runners  throwing  a  shower  of  broken  ice  into  our 
faces  with  a  force  that  was  terrifying  to  a  greenhorn.  Sud- 
denly I  noticed  a  ribbonlike  strip  of  open  water  winding  across 
the  lake,  directly  in  our  path.  The  crack  was  a  long  one ;  it 
was  impossible  to  dodge  it,  the  way  we  were  flying,  and 
equally  impossible  to  stop;  it  seemed  to  me  that  certain 
death  stared  us  in  the  face.  If  I  was  frightened  before,  I  was 
horrified  now.  I  thought  our  time  had  surely  come,  and, 
glancing  up  into  George's  calm  face,  I  pointed  to  the  crack 
ahead  of  us.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  danger,  but  he  did 
not  appear  to  be  frightened.  As  we  neared  the  open  water, 
he  threw  the  boat  up  into  the  full  force  of  the  wind,  and,  as 
the  great  white  wings  caught  the  gale,  she  fairly  leaped  from 
the  ice.  In  an  instant  she  cleared  the  chasm — landing  us 
safely  on  the  other  side.  I  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  and  mentally 
resolved  to  walk  home — but  I  did  not.  Although  nearly  frozen 
and  badly  scared  when  we  reached  the  south  side  of  the  lake, 
I  was  so  enraptured  with  the  sport  that  I  was  just  as  ready 
for  the  return  trip  as  my  friend  was,  and  never  again  expe- 
rienced the  fear  I  did  on  this  initial  trip.  With  me  it  was  a 
case  of  love  at  first  sight,  and  my  only  regret  is  that  business 
has  compelled  me  to  live  the  greater  part  of  my  life  where 
I  could  not  enjoy  this  grand  winter  sport.  I  often  visit  lake 
towns,  where  there  are  the  finest  of  opportunities  for  ice  boat- 
ing, and,  on  inquiry,  cannot  find  a  boat  in  the  place — no  in- 
terest whatever  being  taken  in  this,  the  grandest  of  sports  on 
our  northern  lakes  and  rivers.  Flying  along  at  a  speed  more 
rapid  than  a  fast  express  train,  cutting  through  the  keen 
winter  air — often  leaping  clear  of  the  ice  and  skipping  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet — is  a  delight  that  entrances  while  it  frightens 
the  novice,  and  he  is  sure  to  enjoy  it  again  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. 

[56] 


My  First  Ride  on  an  Ice  Boat. 


In  skilled  hands,  an  ice  boat  is  more  easily  managed  than 
the  ordinary  sailing  craft.  There  are  dangers  that  the  man 
at  the  tiller  cannot  reckon  on  until  they  appear  to  him ;  but 
he  keeps  a  sharp  lookout  ahead,  and  usually  avoids  them  by 
so  close  a  margin  that  it  sends  the  cold  chills  creeping  up 
the  back  of  the  passenger  who  is  taking  his  first  ride.  The 
danger  is  not  so  great  as  might  be  expected  from  the  great 
speed  made,  and  is  often  more  apparent  than  real.  When  one 
becomes  the  owner  and  master  of  one  of  these  frail  crafts, 
what  a  world  of  new  pleasure  it  opens  up  to  him!  One  of 
the  prime  factors  in  making  it  so  fascinating  is  the  very  fact 
of  flying  past  these  dangers  and  missing  them  by  a  few  feet 
— by  a  simple  turn  of  the  hand  which  guides  your  craft  safely 
by.  It  cultivates  a  sharp  eye,  quickens  the  judgment,  stimu- 
lates the  daring  of  the  young,  and  causes  the  fire  of  youth  to 
tingle  through  the  veins  of  the  middle-aged.  Ice  boating  is 
not  an  expensive  sport — a  recreation  that  can  only  be  enjoyed 
by  the  rich.  The  boat  I  took  my  first  ride  on  was  built  and 
rigged  by  the  owner,  and  I  do  not  think  it  cost  him  over  $25.00 
outside  his  own  work.  Unlike  the  summer  sail  boat,  it  is  not 
necessary  that  an  ice  boat  should  be  built  by  an  expert  on 
certain  prescribed  lines,  in  order  to  get  speed  out  of  her.  The 
most  ungainly  home-made  affair  will  carry  you  over  the  ice 
at  a  speed  of  nearly  a  mile  a  minute  and  furnish  as  much 
pleasure  to  its  owner  as  a  $500  yacht ;  but  it  must  be  strongly 
built,  properly  handled,  and  carry  plenty  of  canvas.  I  am 
sorry  for  the  one  who  lives  away  from  the  water,  and  who  is 
so  unfortunate  as  to  be  debarred  the  enjoyment  of  this  king 
of  outdoor  winter  sports. 

The  amateur  will  need  to  take  his  first  lessons  in  a  light 
breeze  on  open  ice,  as  it  is  then  easy  for  him  to  get  familiar 
with  the  handling  of  his  boat,  without  incurring  too  much 
danger ;  and  if  a  sharp  gale  springs  up  suddenly,  as  is  often 
the  case  on  our  northwestern  lakes,  it  is  better  to  postpone 
farther  practice  until  the  elements  are  more  favorable.  A 

[57] 


My  First  Ride  on  an  Ice  Boat. 


quick  eye,  steady  nerve,  and  perfect  confidence  are  absolutely 
essential  to  the  full  enjoyment  and  success  of  ice  boating,  and 
they  can  only  be  gained  from  thorough  practice.  While  ice  boat 
sailing  has  always  been  condemned  on  account  of  its  seeming 
danger,  a  comparison  of  statistics  will  show  that  there  are 
more  accidents  occurring  to  those  who  bicycle,  swim,  shoot 
or  play  foot  ball  than  to  the  ice  boat  enthusiast. 

— Sports  Afield. 


[58] 


Old  Punch. 

What  pleasant  memories  cluster  around  the  name  that 
heads  this  article !  Days  on  the  prairie  after  chickens,  morn- 
ings and  evenings  hidden  in  a  duck  blind  with  old  Punch's 
nose  rubbing  against  my  hand.  Ye  lovers  of  dog  and  gun 
know  all  about  it,  and  I  hope  you  may  enjoy  the  reading  of 
these  few  reminiscences  as  much  as  I  do  the  penning  of  them. 

My  first  meeting  with  Punch  was  peculiar.  I  was  walk- 
ing down  the  main  street  of  the  little  town  of  Belmond,  Iowa, 
on  a  hot  July  day.  Passing  a  group  of  men  on  the  corner, 
my  hunting  eye  fell  on  the  old  dog.  I  noticed  at  once  that 
he  was  a  thoroughbred.  As  I  passed  the  group  I  nodded 
pleasantly  to  the  gentlemen,  patting  the  old  dog  gently  on 
the  head.  I  had  hardly  proceeded  a  block  before  I  felt  some- 
thing cold  touch  my  hand,  and,  glancing  clown,  saw  my  new- 
made  canine  friend  trotting  by  my  side.  Such  was  my  intro- 
duction to  Punch,  and  the  many  happy  days  spent  afield  with 
him  will  always  be  one  of  memory's  brightest  pages. 

I  have,  in  my  long  experience,  owned  and  broken  many 
dogs;  but  Punch  was  the  most  intelligent,  the  best  disposi- 
tioned  and  the  most  superb  all-round  field  dog  I  ever  owned 
or  handled.  He  seemed  to  take  to  me  from  the  very  start,  and 
from  the  morning  of  our  first  meeting  he  followed  me  every- 
where and  could  not  be  kept  at  his  old  home  without  being 
chained  to  his  kennel  Doctor  F.  (his  owner)  met  me  on  the 
street  one  day  a  week  or  two  later  and  said :  "Doctor  Steele, 
I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  spell  you  have  thrown  around 
my  dog,  but  I  can't  keep  him  at  home  any  more  and  can't 
do  anything  with  him.  I  expect  to  move  to  Arkansas  soon 
and  will  leave  him  with  you.  If  I  never  send  for  him,  he  is 
your  dog."  Thus  I  became  the  owner  of  the  best  dog  I  ever 
possessed. 

The  first  time  I  went  into  the  field  with  him,  I  found 
out  why  he  had  deserted  his  old  master.  A  pair  of  chickens 
flushing  wild  in  front  of  him,  he  dropped  in  a  cringing  way, 

[59] 


Old  Punch. 


and  as  I  came  up  rolled  his  eyes  toward  me  and  whined, 
expecting  me  to  kick  him.  The  flush  was  no  fault  of  his.  I 
patted  him  on  the  head  and  we  followed  them  up.  The  next 
time  they  held  better  and  both  chickens  dropped  at  the  crack 
of  my  right  and  left  barrels.  At  the  word  of  command  he 
retrieved  them  promptly,  and  as  I  took  the  last  bird  from  his 
mouth  and  patted  him  on  the  head,  Punch  and  I  were  firm 
friends  for  life. 

As  a  general  field  dog  for  all  kinds  of  game,  he  was  grand. 
He  knew  the  habits  of  most  birds  better  than  I  did.  One 
evening,  as  I  was  .returning  from  a  chicken  shoot,  old  Punch 
was  standing  up  in  the  buggy  with  his  nose  pointing  to  the 
windward,  sniffing  the  breeze.  As  we  turned  the  corner  of 
a  stubble  field,  he  looked  up  at  me  and  whined.  Hitching  the 
horse,  I  dropped  in  a  couple  of  shells  and  followed  him  along 
the  edge  of  the  field.  Soon  his  pace  slackened ;  then,  creeping 
along  slowly  a  few  steps,  he  stiffened  out  into  a  beautiful 
point.  As  I  came  up  he  moved  up  again.  This  was  repeated 
several  times,  when  a  wild  old  cock  flushed  twenty-five  rods 
ahead  and  sailed  off  over  the  cornfield,  cackling  defiance  at 
us.  A  week  later  I  was  walking  across  the  same  field  when 
Punch  came  to  a  point  near  the  same  place.  I  stepped  up 
behind  him  and  he  moved  forward  a  few  steps,  then,  glancing 
back  at  me,  he  started  off  to  the  right,  making  a  detour,  and 
struck  the  edge  of  the  field  100  rods  above  us.  He  then  began 
working  slowly  back  toward  me.  About  fifty  yards  from 
where  he  first  struck  the  scent  he  came  to  a  dead  stand ;  with 
a  loud  roar  the  wary  old  cock  flushed  in  front  of  him  and 
circled  for  the  cornfield.  I  covered  him,  and  just  as  he  topped 
the  corn  the  gun  cracked  and  he  dropped  in  the  edge  of  the 

field. 

Another  evening,  when  out  after  ducks,  we  were  crossing 
a  stubble  field.  The  ground  was  spongy  and  little  pools  of 
water  stood  in  all  the  low  places.  As  we  turned  the  corner 
of  a  cornfield  I  noticed  a  flock  of  mallards  drop  down  in  the 
stubble.  Getting  in  line  with  a  row  of  shocks,  I  motioned 

[60] 


Old  Punch. 

Punch  to  heel  and  started  for  them.  When  within  twenty- 
five  yards  of  the  flock,  they  flushed  and  I  dropped  one  with 
each  barrel.  The  first  shot  was  a  clean  kill,  but  the  second 
bird  was  only  winged.  Knowing"  that  Punch  would  bring  in 
the  winged  bird  first,  I  determined  to  test  his  intelligence. 
He  came  trotting  in  with  the  bird,  and,  looking  up,  wagged 
his  tail  for  me  to  take  it  as  usual.  I  stared  straight  ahead, 
as  though  watching  the  flock  of  mallard,  but  all  the  time  I  was 
watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  He  stood  patiently 
a  few  moments,  then  rubbed  against  my  leg.  At  last,  not 
getting  my  attention,  he  placed  the  wounded  bird  at  my  feet, 
and  started  off  a  few  steps.  Then  stopped  and  looked  back 
to  see  if  I  picked  it  up.  The  duck  had  been  playing  'possum, 
and  thinking  his  time  had  come,  made  a  break  for  the  high 
weeds.  Quick  as  a  flash,  Punch  was  after  him,  and  after  a 
few  minutes'  trailing,  caught  him  and  brought  him  back.  He 
stood  looking  up,  wagging  his  tail,  rubbed  against  my  legs, 
and  did  everything  possible  to  attract  my  attention,  but  I  did 
not  notice  him.  He  put  the  bird  down  again  on  the  ground, 
and,  seizing  its  head  in  his  mouth,  reluctantly  crushed  it.  Then 
off  he  went  to  retrieve  the  other  bird. 

Time  and  space  will  not  permit  me  to  relate  more  of  these 
incidents  from  the  life  of  old  Punch,  but  a  valuable  lesson 
can  be  drawn  from  what  I  have  related,  and  I  earnestly  hope 
all  my  young  readers  who  expect  to  break  field  dogs  may 
profit  by  it.  In  breaking  your  dog,  do  not  break  him  at  all, 
but  train  him.  Do  not  make  him  your  slave;  make  him  rather 
your  friend  and  companion.  Then,  in  after  years,  like  the 
dethroned  king,  you  can  say: 

"He  did  not  love  me  for  my  throne; 

Yet  was  he  patient,  fond  and  brave; 
He  loved  me  for  myself  alone. 

He  was  that  good  and  gracious  thing, 
That  rare  appendage  to  a  king — 

A  friend  that  never  played  the  slave." 

—Sports  Afield. 
[61] 


An  Old  Negative. 


October  Afternoon  on  Lime  Creek. 


Among  the  choicest 
treasures  of  my  den  is  a 
travel-worn  camera.  Once 
it  was  newer  and  more 
beautiful  than  now,  but  to 
me  it  was  not  nearly  so 
beautiful  in  its  bright  fac- 
tory polish  as  it  is  in  its 
rusty  coat  of  black.  Every 
scratch,  stain  and  mar  re- 
cord a  story  in  a  mute 
language  known  only  to 
myself.  They  point  silently  to  a  row  of  boxes  on  my  closet 
shelves ;  stowed  away  carefully  in  those  boxes  are  hundreds 
of  negatives  made  with  this  old  trail-scarred  veteran,  each 
of,  which  tells  a  story  of  happy  bygone  days.  Sometimes, 
when  worn  and  weary  with  the  cares  of  business,  I  steal 
away  by  myself,  take  down  these  boxes  and  look  over  my 
treasures.  Holding  them  up  to  the  light  one  by  one,  I  look 
through  them  into  the  hazy  past,  which  they  so  faithfully 
bring  back  to  life.  Then,  when  they  have  woven  their  potent 
spell  around  me,  they  talk  to  me  of  days  spent  near  to  Na- 
ture's heart.  Perhaps  one  of  these  rambles  may  be  worth 
repeating,  that  you  may  know  something  of  what  these  old 
plates  tell  me.  Here  is  one  that  says :  "Do  you  remember 
that  bright  October  afternoon  on  Lime  Creek?  You  rec- 
ollect you  started  off  with  rod  and  camera,  under  the  pre- 
tense of  going  a-fishing,  but  when  you  reached  the  creek  bank 
you  discovered  that  you  only  had  part  of  your  fishing  tackle 
with  you.  Though  but  a  short  quarter  of  a  mile  from  home, 
you  did  not  return  for  it,  but  wandered  on  and  on  enchanted 
by  the  lovely  autumn  scenery.  How  beautifully  the  afternoon 
sun  tinted  the  hillsides  along  the  east  shore  of  the  little  silvery 

[63] 


An  Old  Negative. 


stream !  Though  you  made  many  snap-shots  of  choice  bits  of 
scenery,  it  was  impossible  to  portray  the  wondrous  tints  of 
autumn  colors  that  lined  the  hillsides  or  the  velvety  green 
sward  and  mossy  rim  at  the  old  spring  where  you  ate  your 
lunch.  On  and  on  you  tramped  over  hill  and  dale,  until,  just 
as  the  sun  touched  the  tree  tops  in  the  west,  you  reached  the 
old  foot  bridge.  Leaning  upon  the  rail,  you  gazed  down  on  the 
placid  waters  of  the  little  brook.  Reflected  in  its  quiet  depths 
were  the  azure-tinted  heavens  and  fleecy  clouds  that  drifted 
like  shadows  over  its  reflecting  bosom."  What  a  scene,  and 
what  a  day !  How  precious  the  memories  of  that  autumn  day 
stroll,  so  plainly  told  by  this  old  plate  ! 

Now,  my  dear  friend,  do  you  wonder  that  I  like  my 
camera?  I  know  that  some  of  my  friends  think  that  I  am  a 
kind  of.  a  crank,  because  I  spend  so  much  time  and  money  on 
my  camera,  but  it  is  because  they  do  not  understand.  They  are 
not  Nature  lovers  and  do  not  understand  that  the  camera  is 
a  means  to  an  end. 

"Oh  pity  those  who  cannot  see 

God's  image  in  the  flower, 
Xor   yet   perceive   the   soul   in    song, 

Xor  thrill  at  music's  power." 

— Northwestern  Sportsman. 


64] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 

An  old-fashioned  sort  of  yarn  about  an  old-fashioned  kind 
of  Christmas ;  one  with  peace  like  snow,  and  snow  like  peace ; 
on  earth  among  the  plain,  simple  folk  on  the  Kansas  border, 
and  yet  one  of  the  brightest-  Christmas  days  in  memory's  store- 
house. Back  in  the  days  of  yule  logs,  carols  and  loving  cups 
Christmas  day  was  enjoyed  with  love  and  simplicity,  as  it 
should  be.  In  this  age  of  strife  and  competition,  when  one  part 
of  the  world  has  adopted  the  profession  of  money-making  and 
the  balance  of  the  human  family  are  forced  to  the  all-important 
duty  of  making  enough  to  live  on,  Christmas  day  has  lost  much 
of  its  old-time  tone. 

This  story,  that  smacks  of  simple  life  and  pioneer  days, 
may  be  worth  repeating.  It  may  be  well  to  remember  that  we 
shall  not  altogether  forget  what  the  early  settlers  went  through 
in  developing  the  great  prairies  of  the  west.  Western  history 
in  its  entirety  reads  like  a  romance.  From  the  pioneer  with 
gun  and  ox  team  who  first  braved  the  dangers  of  the  trackless 
desert — the  midnight  raids  of  the  blood-thirsty  savage,  the 
winter  onslaught  of  beasts  of  prey,  and  the  frightful  barrenness 
of  the  land  itself — to  the  civilization  of  today,  which  sees  these 
arid  wastes  transformed  into  fertile  farms  and  pasture  lands, 
the  upland  hills  and  covers  where  often  lay  in  wait  the  painted 
redskin,  now  resounding  with  the  hum  of  commercial,  mining, 
and  agricultural  industry,  the  history  of  the  west  is  enchanting 
as  any  volume  of  oriental  life. 

There  is  no  part  of  it  so  strongly  encouraging  and  interest- 
ing as  that  which  relates  to  the  triumph  of  man  over  that  sec- 
tion of  the  country  marked  in  our  old  geographies  as  the  "Great 
American  Desert."  How  well  do  I  remember  when  a  boy 
studying  my  geography  lesson  of  picturing  in  my  mind's  eye 
the  kind  of  country  this  was,  and  wondering  if  I  could  ever  be 
fortunate  enough  to  visit  this  almost  unknown  country  of  tree- 
less plains  and  drifting  sands. 

[65] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


My  finances  were  so  limited  in  early  life  that,  when  I  com- 
pleted my  professional  studies  and  located  in  the  little  town  of 
C—  — ,  in  northeastern  Iowa,  I  was  badly  in  debt  and  with- 
out money.  It  took  hard  work  and  close  application  to  meet 
these  conditions,  and  my  third  year  in  practice  found  me  begin- 
ning a  hard  winter  with  a  severe  cold  and  a  fair  prospect  of 
becoming  an  all-winter  member  of  the  "Shut-in  Club."  Call- 
ing my  physician  for  advice,  he  delivered  himself  thus :  "Lay 
down  your  instruments,  close  up  the  office,  pack  up  your  hunt- 
ing togs  and  gun,  and  hustle  yourself  off  to  a  milder  climate 
where  there  is  a  brighter  altitude  and  more  sunshine.  Take 
plenty  of  time  to  make  the  journey,  and  when  you  reach  your 
destination,  tramp  and  hunt — anything  to  saturate  yourself 
with  sunshine  and  keep  your  lungs  inflated  with  pure  air.  Fol- 
low my  advice  and  you  will  derive  more  benefit  from  it  than 
from  all  the  medicine  I  could  give  you." 

No  one  realized  better  than  I  what  it  cost  him  to  make  this 
concluding  admission  ;  besides,  if  I  followed  his  advice,  it  would 
considerably  reduce  the  denomination  of  his  semi-annual  bill 
for  services  rendered,  which  had  never  yet  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance. 

I  had  already  begun  to  waver  when  the  first  hard  storm  of 
the  season  drove  down  from  the  north  and  clutched  everything 
in  its  icy  embrace.  That  settled  it !  I  would  go,  though  really 
I  could  not  afford  to;  but  then,  neither  could  I  afford  not  to. 
Already,  in  imagination,  I  could  hear  the  report  of  my  gun,  see 
the  rigid  point  of  the  setter,  and  feel  the  free  winds  of  heaven 
sweeping  across  the  broad  prairie.  After  exchanging  letters 
with  friends  in  one  of  the  western  counties  of  Kansas,  my  plans 
were  arranged,  and  two  weeks  later  I  waved  farewell  to  my 
friends  and  was  off  on  my  first  outing  beyond  the  Mis- 
souri. The  next  morning  when  I  changed  cars  at  Atchison  there 
were  a  few  feathery  flakes  of  snow  in  the  air,  but  none  of  that 
wintry  blast  which  I  had  left  behind  me  the  day  before  in  Iowa. 
For  several  hours  our  train  followed  the  winding  of  the  stream 

[66] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


and  we  were  hardly  ever  out  of  sight  of  timber,  but  gradually 
the  patches  of  timber  and  farms  grew  scarcer  and  scarcer,  until 
at  last  we  were  out  on  the  broad  Kansas  prairie.  Farm  houses 
and  fences  had  disappeared  from  the  landscape,  excepting  now 
and  then  a  sod  house  or  dug-out  with  its  inhospitable-looking 
barbed  wire  corral.  All  signs  of  winter  had  disappeared  and 
the  sun  shone  brightly.  Great  herds  of  long-horned  cattle  were 
grazing  on  the  brown  buffalo  grass  as  contentedly  as  though 
it  were  mid-summer  instead  of  mid-winter. 

"This  is  winter,  but  milder 
Winter  than  I  ever  knew." 

As  the  last  faint  reflection  of  a  rarely  beautiful  sunset  faded 
from  the  sky  "fair  Luna  sailed  the  heavenly  sea,"  shining  with 
a  soft  brilliancy  unknown  to  latitudes  east  of  the  Missouri. 
Finally  a  series  of  shrill  shrieks  from  our  little  engine  an- 
nounced the  end  of  my  journey,  and  I  alighted  beside  a  con- 
verted box  car,  wfiich  may  have  seen  better  days,  but  now  mas- 
queraded as  the  passenger  station  of  G —  — . 

Handing  my  baggage  to  the  station  agent,  I  crossed  the 
street  and  "pounded  up"  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  restaurant 
and  postoffice,  and  was  soon  comfortably  fixed  in  a  bed  that 
was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  me.  After  an  early  breakfast  we 
went  over  to  the  store,  and  while  making  a  few  purchases,  my 
friend  drove  up  with  a  wagon.  With  a  hearty  hand-shake  and 
a  genuine  western  greeting  from  my  old  friend  Dave  H—  — , 
we  loaded  in  the  baggage  and  were  off  for  a  fifteen-mile  drive. 
There  was  no  indication  of  Christmas  week  in  the  air  or  sur- 
roundings. It  was  a  gloriously  bright  Indian  summer  morn- 
ing, and  as  the  horses  trotted  along  the  trail  we  talked  of  some 
of  the  old  "white  Christmas  days"  back  in  Iowa.  At  long 
intervals  we  passed  the  sod  house  of  some  homesteader  with 
its  little  patch  of  stubble  field  and  corn.  Without  any  indica- 
tion of  the  line,  the  horses  left  the  trail  and  followed  a  draw 
which  led  off  to  the  'westward.  At  the  end  of  this  draw,  near 
the  bank  of  the  creek,  stood  the  dug-out  home  of  my  old  friend. 

[67] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  said  friend  Dave,  as  he 
swung  down  from. the  seat.  His  wife  stood  in  the  door,  and  as 
we  entered,  she  said :  "It  is  not  as  nice  as  the  old  Iowa  home, 
but  you  are  as  welcome  as  you  would  be  to  a  palace  if  we  had 
it  to  offer,  and  the  longer  you  stay  the  better  it  will  suit  us." 

While  the  busy  little  woman  is  flying  about  singing  "Beu- 
lah  Land"  and  getting  dinner  I  will  tell  my  readers  about  this 
primitive  Kansas  home  and  its  occupants. 

In  building  his  dug-out  Dave  had  dug  back  into  the  bank 
of  the  draw  about  fifteen  feet,  and  laid  up  walls  of  magnesia 
stone,  which  extended  out  from  the  bank  about  nine  feet.  The 
roof  was  made  by  putting  on  a  strong  ridge  pole,  on  which 
lighter  poles  were  laid  for  rafters,  then  a  covering  of  light 
brush,  and,  lastly,  a  layer  of  sod.  The  inside  walls  were  plas- 
tered with  magnesia,  and  the  ceiling  covered  with  strong  sheet- 
ing. The  dug-out  faced  east  with  a  door  and  two  windows  in 
the  front,  and  half  windows  on  the  north  and  south.  It  was 
neat,  clean,  and  comfortable,  if  not  pretentious.  Dave's  father 
was  among  the  well-to-do  men  of  their  native  Iowa  town.  Dave 
and  his  wife  grew  up  from  childhood  together,  and  were  en- 
gaged to  be  married  at  the  time  Mr.  H—  -  died.  Upon  set- 
tling up  the  estate  it  was  found  there  would  only  be  a  few  hun- 
dred dollars  left  after  everything  was  sold  and  the  debt  paid. 
This  brave  little  woman  married  her  "Davie"  and  gave  up  the 
old  home  and  friends  in  a  cultured  college  town  and  went  west 
to  help  her  husband  carve  a  home  out  of  buffalo  sod  of  western 
Kansas.  Here  I  found  them  five  years  later,  away  out  on  this 
lonely  prairie,  and  she  doing  her  work  as  cheerfully  and  singing 
as  blithely  as  she  used  to  in  the  old  home  kitchen. 

We  read  much  of  the  hardihood  and  heroism  with  which 
our  pioneers  confronted  the  perils  of  the  trackless  wilderness ; 
of  the  disregard  of  danger  shown  by  the  men  who  marked  the 
pathway  of  civilization  across  plain  and  mountain  to  the  distant 
Pacific ;  of  the  privations  and  hardships  endured  by  the  agri- 
culturists and  stockmen  when  wilderness  and  plain  were  being 
converted  from  the  wilds.  We  are  asked,  and  not  vainly,  to 

[68] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


thrill  with  admiration  for  the  achievement  of  vigorous  steel- 
thewed  manhood  and  husky,  adventurous  youth,  but  of  that 
greater,  more  wonderful  heroism  displayed  by  their  mothers, 
wives  and  daughters,  historians  and  novelists  have  been 
strangely  silent.  It  is  within  the  rightful  province  of  men  to 
do  and  dare,  and  a  woman  to  suffer  in  silence.  Why,  then, 
should  the  one  deserve  much  praise  if  not  the  other? 

The  women  who  molded  bullets  and  loaded  rifles  for  the 
defenders  of  the  beleagurecl  block-house  or  log  cabin  are  de- 
serving of  a  place  in  history,  but  no  more  so  than  their  sisters 
of  pioneer  days  on  the  plains.  For  these  women  were  all 
heroic,  resourceful  in  emergencies,  patient  and  contented  under 
conditions  that  only  womankind  could  endure  without  a  mur- 
mur. Living  in  shacks,  sod  houses,  and  dug-outs,  isolated 
from  the  world  and  surrounded  by  dangers;  often  alone,  or, 
worse,  with  the  care  and  protection  of  a  family  on  their 
shoulders ;  scantily  provided  with  the  necessities  and  comforts 
of  life,  and  with  none  of  life's  pleasures,  theirs  was  a  heroism 
in  comparison  with  which  that  of  the  husbands  and  brothers 
fades  into  insignificance. 

These  were  the  thoughts  which  were  running  through  my 
mind  when  I  was  suddenly  brought  back  to  earth  by  the  little 
lady  saying:  "It  is  not  such  a  dinner  as  you  are  used  to, 
Doctor,  but  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  have  you  with  us 
to  share  it."  As  we  pushed  back  from  the  dinner  table,  Dave 
said :  "Now,  Doctor,  we  have  everything  for  our  Christmas 
dinner  but  the  meat,  and  you  or  I  will  have  to  provide  that." 
I  replied:  "That's  easy;  we  will  have  broiled  prairie  chicken 
and  quail  on  toast,  and  that  is  something  that  would  strain  the 
pocketbooks  of  our  city  cousins." 

We  had  a  royal  afternoon's  sport  with  the  quail  along  the 
creek  bottom  and  the  chickens  in  the  corn,  and  brought  home 
birds  enough  to  make  our  part  of  the  Christmas  meal.  What 
a  voracious  appetite  we  developed,  and  how  nobly  Mrs. 
H—  -  provided  for  its  appeasement ! 

[69] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


Pushing  back  from  the  table,  I  felt  satisfied  with  the  world, 
because  I  had  finished  a  good,  plain  supper,  flavored  with  the 
best  of  all  seasoning,  namely,  plain  sauce  and  an  outdoor  air 
appetite. 

Our  evening  was  passed  quietly  talking  over  the  news  of 
our  old  home.  Retiring  early,  I  was  asleep  almost  as  soon  as 
I  touched  the  soft  feather  bed.  I  awoke  the  next  morning  in 
time  to  hear  the  clock  strike  seven,  and  as  I  counted  the  strokes 
there  came  to  me  the  recollection  that  this  was  Christmas,  and 
that  just  a  week  before,  to  the  minute,  I  had  rolled  out  of  bed 
weak  and  shivering  and  dreading  my  day's  work.  Only  a 
week !  Yet  in  that  short  time  the  whole  world  had  changed. 
Turning  over  in  bed,  I  looked  out  of  the  window  just  as  the  sun 
rose  in  the  east  and  sent  long,  mellow  shafts  of  gold  aslant  the 
autumn-tinted  skies.  I  was  greeted  with  a  "Merry  Christmas" 
from  the  bed  on  the  other  side  of  the  curtain,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  tea  kettle  was  singing  merrily  on  the  little  cook  stove. 

Over  our  bacon  and  corn  cakes  Dave  outlined  the  day's 
program.  He  said,  "Doctor,  you  can  go  for  a  hunt  and  I  will 
finish  husking  my  corn  this  forenoon."  I  replied,  "No ;  I  will 
help  you  get  the  corn  out,  and  after  dinner  we  can  drive  over 
to  your  brother's  and  hunt  on  the  way." 

We  had  the  corn  in  the  crib  just  in  time  to  wash  for  din- 
ner. Oh,  how  good  that  Christmas  dinner  smelled  as  we 
stepped  up  to  the  open  door  of  the  little  dug-out.  I  doubt  very 
much  if  any  of  the  rich  city  families  enjoyed  their  Christmas 
dinner  that  day  any  more  than  we  did.  The  game  occupied 
the  center  of  the  table,  flanked  with  a  variety  of  other  good 
dishes,  and  sauced  with  an  appetite  that  could  enjoy  it. 

After  dinner  we  climbed  into  the  big  farm  wagon  and  drove 
over  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  Dave's  brother,  Newton. 
There  was  an  organ  in  the  house,  and  the  afternoon  passed  so 
quickly  with  music  and  visiting  that  it  was  night  before  we 
realized  it.  Newton  lived  in  a  four-roomed  frame  house,  and 
before  leaving  we  were  invited  into  the  dining  room  to  partake 

[70] 


A  Long  Ago  Kansas  Christmas. 


of  a  lunch  of  cold  chicken,  bread  and  butter,  and  pumpkin  pies. 
About  9  o'clock  we  bade  our  friends  good  night  and  started  for 
home.  I  love  to  live  over  in  memory  the  contentment  and  hap- 
piness of  that  Christmas  day,  and  the  beauty  and  peacefnlness 
of  that  moonlight  night  as  we  drove  homeward  across  the 
prairie. 

— Wallace's  Farmer. 


171] 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


As  I  sit  by  the  fire  this 
evening,  listening  to  the 
song  of  the  crickets,  they 
call  up  sad  yet  pleasant 
memories  of  the  past,  and 
among  the  sweetest  of 
these  are  those  Indian 
summer  days  when  I 
hunted  with  brother  John 
on  the  prairies  of  Iowa. 

After  an  unusually  hard 
summer  in  the  office  I  felt 
the  need  of  rest  and  recre- 

* 

ation,  so  dropped  a  line 
to  my  brother,  who  was 
practicing  dentistry  in  the 
town  of  E —  — . 

Game  was  more  plenti- 
ful there  then  than  now, 
and  never  again  do  I  ex- 
pect to  enjoy  such  shoot- 
ing as  I  had  on  that  trip, 
as  there  are  very  few 
places  where  it  could  now 

be  found.  It  had  been  many  years  since  John  and  I  had  enjoyed 
a  hunt  together,  and  the  evening  of  my  arrival  at  his  home  was 
spent  in  pleasant  reminiscences  while  I  unpacked  my  trunk 
and  put  away  my  shooting  outfit.  Though  we  retired  early,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  my  head  had  hardly  touched  the  pillow  be- 
fore I  heard  a  noise  in  the  kitchen  and  the  odors  that  came 
stealing  in  my  room  served  notice  on  me  that  breakfast  was 
nearly  ready.  As  I  rolled  over  in  bed  and  looked  away  across 
the  distant  fields  and  prairies,  I  could  imagine  the  big  flocks 

f731 


Hunting  with   Brother  John. 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


of  full  grown  prairie  chickens  dodging  around  in  the  stubble 
in  search  of  their  morning  feed. 

The  mere  thought  of  these  grand  game  birds  had  the  effect 
of  thoroughly  electrifying  me  and  bringing  me  out  upon  the 
floor  in  a  twinkling.  A  warm  breakfast  disposed  of  and  our 
guns  and  shells,  together  with  a  capacious  basket  (the  contents 
of  which  I  was  made  familiar  with  several  hours  later)  were 
loaded  into  the  buggy  and  we  went  rattling  down  the  street 
with  Reddy  and  Queen  racing  ahead  now  and  then  to  sniff 
patronizingly  at  some  cur  dog  which  rushed  out  to  salute  us  as 
we  passed  by.  One,  two,  three,  how  fast  the  miles  were 
traversed !  I  was  just  commencing  to  wonder  when  we  were 
to  begin  operations,  for  we  had  gone  by  numerous  fields  seem- 
ing to  me  to  be  the  choicest  of  shooting  grounds,  when  sud- 
denly John  pulled  up  the  horse  at  the  end  of  a  long  piece  of 
wheat  stubble,  probably  twenty  rods  wide,  and  half  a  mile  long. 
It  was  the  only  piece  of  stubble  within  a  mile,  and  an  ideal 
feeding  ground  for  the  wary  birds  we  were  seeking.  We  were 
not  surprised  when  Reddy,  who  had  been  making  game  for 
sometime,  drew  down  to  a  fine  point  in  the  rag  weed  at  the 
edge  of  the  field,  and  was  beautifully  backed  by  Queen.  What 
a  pretty  picture  they  presented,  and  how  I  regretted  that  the 
kodak  had  been  left  at  home !  As  we  neared  the  dogs,  they 
crept  forward  a  few  steps  and  John  said :  "You  take  the  first 
bird  that  gets  up."  Scarcely  had  the  words  left  his  lips  when  a 
lusty  bird  darted  like  lightning  from  the  stubble  and  took  a 
straight-away  course.  The  little  gun  came  up  promptly  and,  at 
its  sharp  crack,  my  victim  pitched  from  sight.  A  shell  was 
thrust  in  the  smoking  chamber  and  we  prepared  for  more  birds. 
Reddy  still  stood  on  his  original  point  and  we  knew  we  might 
expect  more  birds  to  burst  out  at  any  time.  A  step  forward  on 
my  part,  and  a  cock  bird  burst  forth  on  John's  side  and  went 
rushing  away  with  a  great  fuss  and  whirring  of  wings.  It 
assayed  towering  above  John's  head  and  escaping  behind  his 
back,  but  at  the  report  of  the  ten-gauge  I  saw  an  inanimate 
form  falling  earthward  through  the  cloud  of  smoke  overhead. 

[74] 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


At  the  last  report  there  was  a  great  commotion  and  quite  a 
bunch  of  birds  shot  out  like  a  bolt  of  lightning.  I  heard  John's 
second  barrel,  and  three  or  four  more  birds  emerged  upon  my 
side,  a  snap  shot  at  the  two  foremost  was  fired,  but  resulted  in 
a  blank.  Through  the  vaporous  fumes  of  the  powder  smoke  I 
saw  another  of  the  sly  rascals  making  for  cover  at  a  great  pace 
and  my  finger  instantly  pressed  the  trigger ;  but  the  charge  of 
No.  7's  only  hastened  its  flight  to  a  place  of  safety.  From  the 
scene  of  our  first  onslaught  we  drove  northward  toward  the 
river  and,  as  we  neared  the  timber,  John  said :  "Now,  Doc,  get 
ready  for  a  crack  at  quail,  for  there  is  always  a  flock  or  two  in 
the  timber  above  the  bridge."  After  crossing  the  bridge,  we 
tied  our  horse  to  a  tree  and  struck  out  with  both  dogs  ranging 
in  fine  shape  and  covering  the  ground  thoroughly.  Twenty 
yards  from  the  entrance  to  the  timber,  which  we  found  to  our 
delight  not  to  be  so  thick  but  what  good  shooting  was  com- 
paratively easy,  Reddy,  who  was  working  systematically  ahead 
of  us,  came  to  a  dead  stop  and  no  amount  of  persuasion  would 
induce  him  to  advance.  The  ground  was  covered  with  a  sparse 
growth  of  short,  dead  grass  which  grew  up  between  the  stones 
with  which  the  ground  was  strewn.  For  several  yards  around 
us  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  our  seeing  the  bird  on  the 
ground,  or  at  least  so  I  thought,  and  with  a  warning  word  to 
Reddy  for  his  carelessness  in  pointing  a  bird  in  such  a  positive 
manner,  I  took  a  step  forward.  As  I  did  so,  out  from  almost 
under  my  nose  started  the  bird,  which  shot  aloft  like  a  rocket. 
So  surprised  was  I  that  I  lost  considerable  time  in  swinging 
my  gun  to  position  and  in  the  meantime  John  killed  the  bird 
from  behind  my  back.  Then  followed  a  vastly  pleasing  and 
exciting  experience — that  of  putting  up  the  remaining  birds 
from  the  timber.  A  half  an  hour  later  we  had  succeeded  in 
flushing  a  greater  part  of  the  bevy,  but  our  bag  was  not  as  good 
as  it  should  have  been  considering  the  many  fine  shots  we  both 
had.  I  never  was  a  good  shot  at  quail,  and  on  this  occasion 
our  game  pockets  were  not  pulling  as  heavy  on  our  shoulders 
as  would  have  been  the  case  had  I  done  my  part.  John  pro- 

[75] 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


posed  that  we  take  another  tramp  through  a  low  piece  of  cover 
down  near  the  stream.  Nothing  loth  I  agreed,  and  we  pro- 
ceeded through  the  patch.  When  about  half  way  through,  a 
circumstance  occurred,  the  recollection  of  which  rime,  in  its 
advance,  will  not  be  able  to  wholly  obliterate  from  my  memory. 
John  pointed  up  stream  saying:  "Here  comes  a  bunch  of 
mallards.  They  are  likely  to  drop  in  at  this  bend,  and  if  they 
do,  we  will  clean  up  the  bunch/'  As  they  neared  our  hiding 
place,  they  set  their  wings  and  dropped  into  the  river  about 
thirty  rods  above  us.  We  kept  quiet  for  a  few  minutes  to  give 
them  time  to  get  settled,  then  we  carefully  raised  our  heads 
above  the  willows,  expecting  to  give  that  bunch  of  wary  old 
mallards  the  surprise  of  their  life.  But,  alas ! 

"The  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley." 

Not  a  duck  was  in  sight  on  the  river  and  a  half  hour's 
careful  search  up  and  down  the  stream  failed  to  locate  them. 

One  more  run  through  a  piece  of  brush  that  intervened  be- 
tween us  and  our  waiting  rig  added  three  cotton-tails  to  our 
bag.  We  at  last  arrived  at  the  wagon  and  emptied  our  pockets 
into  it.  The  half  hour  following  we  devoted  to  that  most  pleas- 
urable of  occupations  overhauling  the  lunch  basket.  Then  we 
stretched  ourselves  on  the  big  fur  robe  and  took  things  easy 
until  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  warned  us  that  it  was  time 
to  be  moving.  John  proposed  that  we  drive  out  of  our  way 
several  miles  to  a  favorite  chicken  ground  and  take  in  the  even- 
ing shooting.  Xot  willing  to  appear  at  all  fagged,  I  yielded 
a  ready  assent  and,  driving  our  horse  down  to  the  river  to 
water,  we  climbed  in  and  sped  smoothly  away  toward  the 
north. 

Nestling  at  our  feet  lay  the  trophies  of  our  shoot,  re- 
splendent in  their  winter  garb  of  fur  and  feather.  Game  little 
fellows,  'twas  their  misfortune  to  be  the  victims,  our  fortune 
to  be  the  victors,  but  none  can  say  that  we  gave  them  no 
chance  for  their  lives. 

[76] 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  as  we  alighted  within  five 
minutes'  walk  of  one  of  those  long,  narrow  sloughs  with  which 
northwest  Iowa  was  so  bountifully  supplied  in  those  days,  and 
which  formed  the  nesting  and  roosting  grounds  for  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  Iowa's  grand  game  birds.  This  slough  was 
bounded  on  two  sides  by  wheat  stubble,  and  being  a  long  dis- 
tance from  any  farm  house,  was  an  ideal  shooting  ground  in 
those  days.  At  this  time  of  the  day  we  knew  we  would  find 
our  game  along  the  border  of  the  field  working  their  way  back 
to  their  roosting  ground  after  their  evening  feed.  As  we 
reached  the  edge  of  the  slough,  Queen  commenced  to  draw  to  a 
point  and  an  old,  experienced  cock  got  up  a  long  distance  ahead 
and  darted  away  unharmed.  However,  all  were  not  so  watch- 
ful and  the  pair  which  popped  up  close  by,  a  moment  later,  and 
essayed  to  escape  by  an  exhibition  of  the  same  kind,  were  not 
so  lucky.  We  were  now  at  the  beginning  of  the  shooting 
ground  and  some  distance  apart,  leaving  the  intervening  stub- 
ble between  us  for  the  dogs  to  work.  To  describe  the  feeding 
ground  we  found  there,  and  the  myriad  of  birds  busily  engaged 
in  adding  more  fat  to  their  already  plump  bodies  would  require 
a  pen  far  more  nimble  than  mine.  What  sport  could  be  more 
exhilarating  than  to  stand  in  the  midst  of  such  shooting  as  this, 
half  the  time  in  doubt  which  way  to  swing  the  tapering  barrels 
to  ge  the  best  shot? 

My  pen  is  not  gifted  enough  to  describe  the  next  hour's 
shooting,  but  my  readers  who  have  been  there  know  all  about 
it.  Suffice  to  say  that  such  shooting  cannot  be  realized  any- 
where on  chickens  at  the  present  time. 

The  shadows  of  the  wheat  stacks  were  long  when  the 
dogs  made  their  first  stand,  and  almost  before  we  realized  it 
our  shooting  for  the  day  was  done  ;  but  it  had  been  a  glorious 
day  and  we  were  happy  and  satisfied.  Hitching  up,  we  took 
our  course  across  the  prairie  toward  a  dark  streak  in  the  west 
which  we  knew  was  the  "river  timber."  As  we  drove  home- 
ward we  read  the  signs  which  were  all  about  us.  The  after- 
glow of  the  hazy  Indian  summer  sunset,  the  shaggy  tops  of 

[77] 


Old  October  Days  in  Iowa. 


the  golden  rod,  the  little  white  bunches  of  gum  on  the  resin 
weed,  the  great  flocks  of  ducks  and  geese  headed  southward,  all 
told  the  tale  of  summer's  close.  Many  years  have  passed  since 
I  spent  those  happy  days  with  brother  John,  but  never  does 
October  roll  around  without  recalling  some  of  the  hunting  or 
fishing  incidents  of  that  joyous  two  weeks'  vacation. 

— Outers'  Book. 


78] 


In  Northern  Woods. 

It  was  one  of  the  last  days  in  the  beautiful  month  of  Oc- 
tober. The  oaks  and  maples  were  blazing  forth  in  their 
autumnal  colors,  while  the  elms  along  the  creek  bank  were 
sadly  giving  up  their  yellow  leaves  to  Mother  Earth.  Sharp 
frosts  had  killed  the  tender  vegetation  and  browned  the  up- 
land fields;  but  here  and  there  in  sheltered  spots,  along  the 
sunny  banks  of  the  stream,  the  grass  was  still  green,  as  if  try- 
ing to  persuade  the  passer-by  that  another  summer  had  come. 
But  alas !  the  falling  leaves,  the  tints  of  the  foliage,  the  fading 
golden-rod  and  blighted  vegetation  told  too  well  the  tale  that 
summer's  days  were  o'er  and  that  the  twilight  season  of  the 
year  had  come. 

I  had  started  out  for  a  tramp  down-creek  with  my  20-bore 
on  my  shoulder  and  my  fishing  tackle  in  my  pocket.  Striking 
across  the  low  meadowland  that  separated  my  home  from  the 
timber,  I  came  out  on  the  banks  of  the  creek  and  followed  its 
winding  course  to  the  southward.  It  was  a  quiet,  lazy  day- 
one  of  those  dreamy  fall  days  when  all  the  world  seems  to  be  at 
a  stand-still,  halting  between  summer  and  winter.  The  spirit 
of  the  day  seemed  to  catch  me  and  I  strolled  listlessly  along, 
following  every  winding  turn  of  the  stream,  lost  in  dreamy 
meditation. 

I  had  been  spending  a  month's  vacation  at  my  old  home 
and  every  afternoon  found  me  fishing  the  waters  of  Lime  Creek 
or  hunting  pheasants  and  squirrels  in  the  woods  along  its 
shores.  I  had  spent  so  much  time  at  these  sports  that  I  knew 
the  haunt  of  every  wary  denizen  of  wood  and  water  for  miles 
around.  Winter  would  soon  be  with  us  again  and  spread  her 
mantle  of  white  over  these  brown  fields  and  meadows.  Tomor- 
row I  must  leave  for  my  Nebraska  home  and  another  year  must 
roll  around  with  its  humdrum  life  and  hard  work  before  I  could 
again  visit  this  charming  spot  and  enjoy  the  health-giving 
pleasures  of  gun  and  rod. 

[79] 


In  Northern  \Yoods. 


My  reveries  were  suddenly  disturbed  by  the  splashing  of 
a  flock  of  mallards,  as  they  darted  out  from  under  a  bush  of  wil- 
lows, thirty  yards  to  my  left.  Throwing  the  little  gun  quickly 
to  my  shoulder,  I  sent  a  charge  of  shot  after  the  laggard  of  the 
flock,  but  the  distance  was  too  great  for  my  light  load  of  fine 
shot.  A  few  feathers  floated  lazily  down  on  the  autumn  leaves 
as  the  flock  disappeared  around  the  bend  out  of  sight.  I  had 
a  half-mile  of  good  duck  water  to  traverse  yet  before  reaching 
my  destination  and  I  resolved  to  keep  a  closer  eye  on  the  water. 
I  kept  close  in  among  the  willows  and  scanned  every  open 
course  of  water  carefully,  but  reached  my  fishing  ground  at  the 
old  dam  without  seeing  another  duck.  Standing  my  gun  against 
the  abutment  where  it  would  be  in  easy  reach,  I  got  out  my 
steel  rod  and  box  of  tackle  and  prepared  to  cast  for  pickerel. 
Where  the  water  rushed  through  the  waste  gate,  in  the  middle 
of  the  dam,  it  had  washed  a  deep  hole  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream  which  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  big  ones  these  late 
autumn  days.  There  was  one  old-timer  in  the  pool  that  I  had 
hooked  twice  before  and  I  was  anxious  to  have  one  more  whirl 
at  him  before  leaving.  This  was  the  main  object  of  my  after- 
noon tramp.  Examining  the  line  and  leader  carefully,  I  tied 
on  a  Skinner  spoon,  hooked  on  a  small  frog  and  cast  across  the 
pool.  I  trolled  the  tempting  bait  slowly  across  the  pool  and 
along  the  whole  length  of  the  apron  of  the  dam,  but  got  no  rise. 
Twice,  three  times,  without  results.  The  fourth  time  I  noticed 
a  little  swirl  behind  the  spoon  just  as  it  left  the  water.  I  knew 
what  that  meant  and  prepared  for  trouble  on  the  next  pass. 
Another  cast  over  near  the  drooping  willows,  and  as  the  spoon 
reached  the  deepest  part  of  the  stream  there  was  a  roll  of  wa- 
ter, a  tug  of  the  line,  and  the  battle  was  on.  I  struck  quick  and 
the  old  fellow  went  straight  for  the  apron  of  the  dam.  I  knew 
if  he  ever  reached  it,  it  meant  disaster  to  the  line  and  loss  of 
the  fish.  I  snubbed  him  all  the  light  line  would  bear.  Just  at 
the  edge  of  the  apron  he  leapt  clear  out  of  the  water  and  started 
back  toward  me.  I  held  him  taut  on  the  line,  and  when  about 
thirty  feet  from  me  he  made  another  turn  for  the  willows  and 

[80] 


In  Northern  Woods. 


took  150  feet  of  line  before  I  could  check  him.  It  was  his  last 
long  run,  and  as  I  reeled  him  in  I  felt  sure  of  him,  and  then 
is  when  I  came  near  losing  him.  I  was  standing  on  the  apron 
near  the  gate  and  when  he  got  within  a  few  feet  of  me  he  made 
a  dash  under  the  apron.  I  succeeded  in  checking  him,  and  as 
he  came  slowly  in  my  eyes  eagerly  followed  the  line  down  into 
the  depths  and  soon  I  saw  his  glistening  sides  in  the  light. 
Foot  by  foot  I  took  up  the  line,  only  to  lose  it  again  in  another 
spurt ;  but  it  was  a  short  one  and  soon  I  had  him  at  my  feet, 
panting — but  game  to  the  last.  What  a  beauty  he  was !  and 
what  a  battle  he  put  up !  The  memory  of  that  fight  and  con- 
quest is  worth  more  to  me  than  the  cost  of  the  whole  trip. 

The  sun  was  well  down  the  western  horizon  as  I  reeled  up 
my  line,  put  away  the  tackle  and  climbed  the  hill,  with  my 
prize,  through  the  woods.  When  I  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
I  stood  under  the  big  trees  and  looked  back  across  the  valley 
toward  Pilot  Mound.  The  hillsides  of  northern  Iowa  and 
southern  Minnesota  are  superlatively  beautiful  in  October, 
when  the  forest  puts  on  its  autumnal  garb.  The  beauties  of 
that  October  evening  will  ever  remain  one  of  memory's  most 
beautiful  pictures.  The  bright  sun  in  the  western  horizon 
shedding  its  placid  light  on  the  autumn  tinted  foliage ;  the 
creek  winding  away  to  the  south  like  a  silver  ribbon  ;  the  clear, 
pure  air  ;  the  whispering  breeze  ;  the  falling  leaves  ;  the  chatter- 
ing squirrel  as  he  gathered  his  winter  store,  and  the  drumming 
of  a  pheasant  across  the  ravine — all  these  sights  and  sounds 
belong  to  the  woods,  and  the  man  who  does  not  love  them  is  to 
be  pitied.  Some  one  has  called  the  autumn  days  the  saddest 
of  the  year;  but  in  my  judgment  he  is  wrong  and  I  believe  all 
lovers  of  rod  and  gun  will  agree  with  me. 

— Sports  Afield. 


[81 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 

For  weeks  we  had  felt  the  symptoms  of  mountain  fever  and 
had  begun  to  wonder  what  autumn  days  were  like  in  the  Rock- 
ies and  if  the  trout  were  biting  in  the  mountain  streams.  '  We 
talked  and  planned  so  much  that  our  thoughts  were  more  with 
the  great  range  of  mountains  to  the  westward  than  with  the 
ordinary  things  about  us. 

At  last  all  arrangements  were  complete  and  a  bright  Sep- 
tember morning  found  our  party  aboard  the  west-bound  train 
on  the  Burlington  &  Missouri  railroad,  hurrying  across  south- 
ern Nebraska  at  a  fifty-mile  gait.  The  green  fields  of  alfalfa, 
golden  harvest,  ripening  corn  and  great  herds  of  cattle  along 
the  Republican  Valley  slipped  by  us  as  we  sped  on  toward 
Denver. 

Just  after  leaving  Fort  Morgan  the  long  train  swung  grace- 
fully around  a  curve,  bringing  into  view  that  mighty  procession 
of  giant  peaks  which  forms  the  front  range  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains— over  a  hundred  miles  away.  When  first  seen  the  moun- 
tain range  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from  the  clouds  that 
hung  around  the  high  peaks. 

"So  softly  blending  that  the  cheated  eye 
Forgets,  or  which  is  earth  or  which  is  heaven." 

As  the  train  rolled  swiftly  on,  our  enraptured  eyes  searched 
the  panorama  for  land  marks.  At  4:45  p.  m.  the  train  pulled 
into  the  Union  Station  at  Denver  and  we  had  just  fifteen  min- 
utes to  get  our  tickets  and  transfer  to  the  "Park  Train"  of  the 
Colorado  Southern.  At  5  p.  m.  the  little  narrow  gauge  train 
moved  out  of  the  railroad  yards  and  we  were  soon  speeding 
away  up  the  Platte,  amid  beautiful  farms,  orchards  and  gardens. 
Twenty  miles  from  Denver  we  left  the  pretty  valley  behind  and 
entered  the  rocky  portals  of  South  Platte  Canyon  and  at  last 
we  were  among  the  scenes  that  had  haunted  our  dreams  for 
weeks.  After  entering  the  canyon  the  two  little  steel  ribbons 
of  the  Colorado  Southern  follow  every  winding  turn  of  the 

[83] 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 


river,  crossing'  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other  and  at 
times  resting  on  a  bed  carved  out  of  the  solid  walls  of  granite. 
The  entire  route  is  a  continuation  of  graceful  curves ;  each  one 
opening  up  new  scenes  of  wonder  and  grandeur  to  eager  eyes. 
The  mountains  are  always  beautiful  in  the  early  autumn, 

"When  the  fern  is  red  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  cloud  is  low  in  the  sky," 

then  they  are  at  their  best.  The  rough,  rugged  walls  of  the 
canyon  on  one  side  of  the  train,  clothed  in  their  varying  tints 
of  green,  orange  and  brown,  and  the  foaming  waters  of  the 
river  on  the  other,  brought  exclamations  of  surprise  from  the 
lips  of  many  a  nature-loving  tourist  as  the  train  proceeded  up 
the  canyon. 

One  moment  the  perpendicular  walls  encroached  upon  the 
river  until  it  seems  as  though  the  train  would  certainly  dash 
against  the  face  of  the  cliff ;  but  suddenly  it  makes  a  sharp  turn 
over  a  bridge  into  a  pretty  little  park  and  stops  at  Strontia 
Springs.  This  is  the  first  resort  in  the  canyon  and  a  fitting 
introduction  to  the  beauty  that  lies  beyond.  The  neat  station 
and  pretty  cottages  in  the  midst  of  a  green  park,  with  the  slop- 
ing, wooded  hills  in  autumn  tints,  formed  a  very  attractive 
picture. 

A  run  of  three  miles  farther  and  our  train  stopped  at  South 
Platte  station,  thirty  miles  from  Denver.  This  is  where  the 
north  and  south  forks  of  the  Platte  River  form  a  junction  and 
is  an  ideal  angler's  resort,  as  either  branch  can  be  fished  from 
here.  From  the  South  Platte  station  the  railroad  follows  the 
north  part  of  the  Platte  and  the  higher  the  panting  iron  horse 
climbs  the  grander  the  scenery  becomes. 

A  short  distance  from  the  South  Platte  a  fellow  tourist 
pointed  out  to  us  the  "Cathedral  Spires,"  a  peculiar  rocky  for- 
mation, very  much  resembling  the  spires  of  an  ancient  cathe- 
dral. For  several  miles  they  were  seen  and  lost  to  view,  as  the 
train  followed  the  windings  of  the  river.  Dome  Rock  next 
came  into  view.  It  is  an  odd  dome-shaped  rock  protruding 

[84] 


'The  view  that  lay  spread  out  around  and  beiow  well  repaid  the  hours  of  toil." 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 


from  the  earth  at  the  base  of  the  mountains  and  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  buried  mosque.  It  was  dark  when  the  train  made  the 
next  stop  at  Ferndale,  one  of  the  most  unique  resorts  in  the 
canyon.  As  a  rule,  mountain  resorts  are  located  in  the  valleys 
or  parks,  but  Ferndale  is  situated  in  a  narrow  gorge  where 
there  is  barely  room  for  the  river  and  railroad.  When  the  train 
stopped,  a  number  of  people  got  off  and  I  wondered  where  they 
were  going.  Not  a  cottage  or  tent  could  be  seen  and  the  thickly 
wooded  walls  of  the  canyon  rose  abruptly  from  the  track  on 
either  side.  Glancing  back  as  the  train  moved  away  from  the 
station  I  noticed  the  twinkling  of  lights  among  the  thick 
growth  of  blue  spruce  away  up  on  the  mountain  side  and  the 
mystery  was  explained.  There  were  the  homes  of  the  summer 
cottagers,  one  above  another  in  mid-air,  like  a  colony  of  wasps. 

At  8  o'clock  p.  m.  the  brakeman  called  "Cliff,"  and  our 
delightful  day's  ride  of  450  miles  was  ended.  In  this  run  of 
one  day  we  were  carried  from  the  beautiful  and  fertile  south 
central  Nebraska  through  the  great  grazing  section  of  west- 
ern Nebraska,  and  landed  amidst  the  grandest  mountain  scen- 
ery of  the  continent. 

You  will  note  a  peculiar  characteristic  with  every  mountain 
stream  that  flows  through  a  narrow  valley — it  never  follows 
the  middle,  but  invariably  hugs  the  higher  and  steeper  bank 
for  a  distance  until  the  cliffs  rise  on  the  opposite  side,  when  it 
crosses  over  to  keep  company  with  its  more  imposing  friend. 

The  cliff  cottages  are  built  at  a  bend  of  the  river  where 
the  stream  winds  around  the  base  of  Cliff  Rock,  leaving  a  piece 
of  bench  land  on  the  mountain  side  just  large  enough  for  the 
half  dozen  tiny  cottages.  As  we  stepped  off  the  train  the  moon 
was  just  appearing  over  the  cliff  across  the  river  and  the  scene 
was  an  enchanting  one.  Clouds  were  hovering  above  the 
mountains  wantonly  descending,  then  lifting  and  floating  across 
the  canyon  and  through  the  tree  tops.  The  river,  fresh  from 
the  eternal  snows,  went  tumbling  and  foaming  over  the  rocks, 
the  pines  whispered  in  the  breeze  and  lent  their  soothing 
fragrance  to  the  air. 

[86] 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 


'Several  casts  in  the  still  waters 
failed  to  bring  a  rise." 


Our  first  two  days  were 
passed  very  quietly  fish- 
ing the  nearby  trout  pools, 
strolling  over  the  moun- 
tains, gathering  flowers, 
berries  and  specimens  and 
getting  acquainted  with 
our  fellow-tourists.  The 
third  morning,  while  eat- 
ing breakfast,  we  ques- 
tioned as  to  what  we 
would  do  for  the  day — go 
up  the  river  for  trout,  go 
over  the  mountains,  visit 
the  mines,  or  go  fishing. 
We  could  not  decide  on  a 
route  that  suited  all,  so 
divided  up  in  three  parties 
for  tshe  day.  Several  of  the 
gentlemen  took  a  lunch 
and  walked  up  to  the 
"Copper  King"  mines. 
The  ladies  went  for  a 
stroll  over  the  mountain 
west  of  the  cottages.  I 
put  in  the  forenoon  pho- 
tographing near  home  and 
after  dinner  took  my  rod 
and  reel  and  went  up  the 
river  after  trout.  I  fol- 
lowed the  railroad  track 
as  far  as  the  curve,  then 
scrambling  down  over  the 
rocks,  struck  the  river  at 
the  head  of  the  rapids  and 
a  more  promising  piece  of 


[87] 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 


water  I  never  cast  a  fly  over.  Putting  my  rod  together,  I  tied 
a  couple  of  flies  and  began  casting.  I  tried  the  quiet  riffles 
near  the  banks  and  under  the  shelving  rocks  where  it  seemed 
there  must  be  trout,  but  not  a  rise  could  I  get.  I  walked 
slowly  up  stream,  climbing  over  rocks  and  around  waterfalls, 
casting  here  and  there  in  likely  places  in  hopes  of  securing  a 
"big  'un." 

Many  large  trout  could  be  seen  in  the  deep,  clear  pools, 
but  they  would  not  take  the  fly.  Time  and  time  again  I 
changed  flies,  but  to  no  purpose.  Near  the  falls  I  met  an  angler 
carrying  an  unjointed  rod  in  his  hand.  "There  are  plenty  of 
trout  down  there,"  he  said,  pointing  toward  the  pool  above 
the  falls,  "but  they  are  not  biting  today."  This  was  discourag- 
ing, but  I  went  down  determined  to  find  out  for  myself.  Sev- 
eral casts  in  the  still  waters  failed  to  bring  a  rise,  so  I  clamb- 
ered out  on  some  rocks  and  casting  by  a  half  sunken  log  got  a 
rise  and  hooked  the  fish,  but  the  current  was  so  swift  that  in 
trying  to  snub  him  away  from  some  brush  he  tore  loose  and 
was  gone. 

With  him  went  the  remnant  of  my  rapidly  fading  dreams 
of  fried  trout  for  breakfast,  so  I  reeled  up  and  started  for  home. 
My  unrewarded  efforts  of  the  afternoon  were  not  such  as  would 
afford  the  average  angler  much  pleasure.  However,  my  dis- 
appointment was  not  as  great  as  might  be  supposed.  In 
reality  the  fishing  was  but  one  of  the  many  pleasures  of  that 
afternoon's  experience.  To  a  lover  of  nature  the  keen  enjoy- 
ment of  following  up  a  mountain  stream  on  such  an  ideal  day 
amid  such  grand  scenery  is  itself  sufficient  cqnipensation  for 
all  the  labor.  As  I  neared  home  in  the  early  twilight,  I  saw  a 
Denver  angler  dressing  a  catch  of  twenty  trout  on  a  big  flat 
rock  beside  the  stream.  Upon  inquiring  where  he  caught  them 
he  replied,  "Between  here  and  Crossen's." 

This  was  the  very  water  I  had  fished  over  so  carefully  just 
about  two  hours  ahead  of  him,  which  proved  to  me  that  there 
were  plenty  of  trout  in  the  stream  that  could  be  caught  at  the 
proper  time,  with  the  proper  bait,  by  one  who  knew  how. 

[88] 


Autumn  Days  in  the  Rockies. 


Wednesday  afternoon  another  crank  and  myself  went  on 
a  photographing  tramp  up  the  canyon.  We  followed  the  rail- 
road as  far  as  the  falls,  then  taking  a  dim  trail,  started  up  the 
steep  side  of  the  canyon  towards  one  of  the  highest  peaks,  the 
roar  of  the  little  cataract  behind  us  growing  fainter  and  fainter 
as  we  toiled  up  the  rough  mountain  side.  The  trail  led  through 
beautiful  groves  of  pine  and  spruce  among  raspberry  bushes 
loaded  with  luscious  fruit.  We  picked  and  ate  until  our  stom- 
achs said  "enough."  The  raspberries  were  not  the  only  attrac- 
tion, for 

"Beside  the  path  hung  trailing  vine 
Pretty  bluebells  and  columbine." 

We  began  to  wonder  where  the  trail  was  taking  us  when 
an  abrupt  turn  brought  us  out  on  a  table-like  spur  near  the  top. 
The  view  that  lay  spread  around  and  below  us  well  repaid  the 
hours  of  toil  up  the  steep  mountain  side.  Around  us  on  all 
sides  towered  the  stupendous  rocky  masses  that  form  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  Rockies.  From  the  cliff  side  where  we  stood 
stretched  away  to  the  southward  the  rugged  green  fringed 
walls  of  the  canyon,  the  tumbling  river  appearing  and  disap- 
pearing among  the  green  like  a  silver  ribbon.  Behind  us  lay 
the  snow-capped  peaks  hidden  in  a  bank  of  dark  clouds.  The 
world  goes  by  comparisons  and  we  did  not  realize  how  high 
we  were  until  we  caught  sight  of  two  white  specks  on  the  dark 
rocks  above  the  falls.  Setting  up  the  camera  I  put  on  the  tele- 
photo  and  focused  on  the  falls,  and  the  ground  glass  showed 
two  anglers  dressed  in  white,  about  one-eighth  of  an  inch  tall. 
The  day  was  ideal  for  camera  work  and  we  made  the  most  of 
the  opportunity  until  the  declining  sun  and  chill  air  warned 
us  that  it  was  time  to  move  toward  home.  It  was  pretty  dark 
in  the  thick  timber,  but  we  made  the  descent  without  accident 
and  reached  the  cottages  in  time  for  a  late  supper. 

— Outers'   Book. 


Christmas  in  the  Old  Log  Cabin. 

It  is  a  cold,  dreary  winter  evening.  Storm  clouds  are  scud- 
ding down  from  the  northwest,  shutting  out  the  last  rays  of 
declining  light,  as  the  white-robed  winter-night  closes  in  on 
the  city. 

"The  evening  sky  is  dim  with  snow; 

The  flakes  falter,  and  fall  slow; 
Aslant  the  hill-top  wrapt  and  pale, 

Silently  drops  the  silver  veil. 
And  all  the  valley  is  shut  in 

By  flickering  curtains  gray  and  thin." 

The  walks  are  full  of  pedestrians  hurrying  homeward  with 
joyous  faces  and  arms  full  of  bundles,  all  intent  on  making 
some  loved  one  happy  on  the  glad  Christmas  morning  so  near 
at  hand. 

Darkness  settles  down  on  the  street.  The  bright  sparkle 
of  electric  lights  here  and  there  only  serves  to  increase  the  gray 
gloom  beyond  their  circle  of  radiance.  Turning  away  from  the 
window  I  poke  the  center-log  near  the  fire's  heart  and  allow 
imagination  to  carry  me  back  to  another  Christmas  time  in  by- 
gone days.  Before  me  I  see  a  winding  road  through  the  forest ; 
beside  the  road,  hidden  among  the  trees,  stands  a  comfortable 
log  cabin.  Sitting  around  the  big,  open  fireplace  is  gathered 
a  happy  family  circle  telling  stories,  eating  hickory  nuts,  and 
popping  corn.  Father  had  been  to  town  that  day  to  do  the 
Christmas  trading  and  is  tired  and  sleepy  after  his  long  ride  in 
the  cold  winter  wind.  Leaning  back  his  head  in  the  old  hick- 
ory splint  chair,  his  eyes  closed  and  a  smile  crept  over  his  face 
as  he  dropped  to  sleep. 

The  fire  flamed  and  danced  up  the  chimney.  The  old  cat 
arose  from  its  corner  by  the  fire,  and,  walking  over  to  father, 
rubbed  against  his  leg  and  purred.  Mother,  who  was  busily 
knitting,  looked  up  to  father  and  said :  "Father,  did  you  get  all 
the  things  we  had  on  the  order  slip?"  Father,  starting  up  from 
his  doze,  replied  :  "Yes,  mother,  and  some  things  that  were 

[91] 


Christmas  in  the  Old  Log  Cabin. 


not  on  the. slip."  "Well,  father,  I  am  glad  you  did,  for  it  will 
keep  me  busy  to  get  ready  for  our  Christmas  company." 

"Mother,"  said  our  father,  "it  was  snowing  when  I  came 
in,  and  I  am  afraid,  from  the  looks,  that  we  will  have  a  stormy 
Christmas  day ;  but  I  hope  it  will  not  be  bad  enough  to  keep 
our  company  from  coming,  for  I  know  if  there  is  anything  you 
enjoy  more  than  cooking  a  good  dinner  it  is  to  see  your  friends 
and  dear  ones  enjoy  the  eating  of  it." 

A  shadow  passed  over  mother's  face  at  the  thought  of  such 
a  disappointment.  For  this  day  we  had  pared,  peeled,  chopped 
and  ground,  and  picked  feathers,  and  we  had  lived  in  happy 
anticipation  of  this  annual  gathering  for  a  whole  year.  Rail- 
roads were  few  and  far  between  and  market  towns  a  long  dis- 
tance from  our  pioneer  home  in  those  days.  Settlers  lived  long 
distances  apart  and  could  not  avail  themselves  of  "holiday 
rates"  and  whirl  away  down  the  valley  fifty  or  a  hundred  miles 
to  visit  friends  or  relatives.  But  once  a  year  we  would  all  get 
together  at  some  home,  and  what  a  grand  meeting  it  was  for 
everyone  who  was  able  to  go ! 

Our  last  Christmas  morning  in  the  old  log  cabin  dawned 
clear  and  cold.  Just  enough  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night 
to  make  the  sleighing  fine.  We  little  folk  could  hardly  wait 
for  the  first  ox  team  to  appear,  and  it  was  half  way  to  noon 
before  the  first  one  came  in  sight  around  the  turn  in  the  road. 
By  half  past  eleven  o'clock  the  last  tired  team  was  in  the  barn 
and  the  men  were  chatting  before  the  fireplace  in  the  spare 
room.  The  women  visitors  were  helping  with  the  dinner.  The 
clatter  of  tongues  and  dishes  were  harmonious,  and  many  a 
good  story  and  bit  of  gentle  gossip  was  followed  by  merry  peals 
of  laughter. 

In  those  days  there  was  no  social  distinction  in  the  little 
pioneer  settlement.  Everyone  co-operated  with  his  neighbor 
in  everything  undertaken  in  the  settlement.  No  building  was 
ever  erected  but  by  a  joint  effort  of  the  neighborhood,  nor 
did  a  family  fail  to  enter  into  the  plans  and  hopes  of  all  the 

[92] 


Christmas  in  the  Old  Log  Cabin. 

branches  that  went  out  from  it.  As  for  the  women  indoors, 
were  they  not  also  as  one? 

At  half  past  twelve  dinner  was  called,  and  what  a  rich 
blending  of  odors  arose  from  that  table  as  we  seated  ourselves 
around  it !  Plateful  after  plateful  disappeared ;  each  new  dish 
received  a  heartfelt  compliment  from  some  of  the  pleased 
guests.  When  at  last  the  feast  was  ended  the  men  folk  went 
out  to  inspect  the  stock,  compare  crop  results,  and  talk  over 
their  plans  for  the  next  year's  work.  The  women  took  hold 
and  helped  to  "clear  the  table."  Amid  the  rattle  of  dishes  and 
merry  laughter  the  task  was  a  light  one  and  the  dishes  were 
soon  put  away  in  the  old  home-made  cupboard. 

As  soon  as  we  could  slip  away  from  the  dinner  table,  we 
youngsters  took  the  home-made  hickory  sleds  and  went  to  the 
big  hill  behind  the  barn.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  our  younger 
readers  what  we  did  there,  but  the  afternoon  passed  so  quickly 
that  darkness  was  upon  us  before  we  knew  it.  As  we  trudged 
up  the  hill  for  the  last  time,  with  ears,  feet,  and  fingers  tingling, 
we  were  a  happy  group.  Happier  far  than  many  city-bred 
children  who  had  received  rich  gifts.  Health,  contentment  and 
innocent  amusement,  are  the  great  necessities  of  pleasure ;  and 
who  were  blessed  with  more  of  these  than  we  on  that  bright 
Christmas  day? 

Then  came  night  with  its  silvered  mid-winter  mantle,  al- 
ways the  sweetest  part  of  the  day  in  a  country  home.  Every- 
one gathered  in  the  big  room,  old  and  young  together.  Dry 
logs  were  piled  high  on  the  andirons,  the  flames  and  sparks 
danced  up  the  chimney,  lighting  up  the  circle  of  happy  faces 
within  its  warm  glow.  While  we  were  popping  corn  our  elders 
were  relating  the  family  history  of  the  year  and  exchanging 
news  items  that  had  been  gathered  since  the  last  reunion. 
Newspapers  and  other  periodicals  were  not  as  cheap  and  plen- 
tiful then  as  now,  and  these  gatherings  were  a  sort  of  neigh- 
borhood newspaper.  They  were  freer  from  crime  and  scandal 
and  therefore  more  wholesome  literary  food  for  the  young  mind 
than  mifch  of  the  cheap  trash  that  now  falls  into  their  hands. 

[93] 


Christmas  in  the  Old  Log  Cabin. 


At  8  o'clock  candles  were  lighted  and  we  ate  our  lunch. 
These  candles  were  not  the  little  fancy  wax-tapers  of  today, 
but  the  old  home-made  "six-to-a-pound"  tallow  candles.  There 
was  plenty  left  from  dinner  for  lunch,  and  enough  for  several 
more  such  meals. 

After  lunch  the  ox  teams  and  long  sleds  were  brought 
around  to  the  door,  and  the  families  bundled  in  and  wrapped 
up  for  the  cold  ride  home.  Each  sled  carried  with  it  a  basket 
full  of  their  Christmas  dinner.  By  9  o'clock  we  children  were 
in  bed,  and  in  our  dreams  were  living  over  again  that  happy 
Christmas  day  already  numbered  among  the  bygones. 

After  all,  the  true  home  is  a  country  home ;  and  happy  is 
the  man  or  woman  whose  youthful  days  were  passed  in  the 
country.  Years  of  city  life  can  never  efface  the  picture,  and 
the  luxurious  city  home  can  never  replace  it. 

Many  Christmas  days  have  come  and  gone  since  that  last 
one  on  the  old  farm,  but  it  stands  out  brighter  on  memory's 
page  than  any  of  them,  and 

"It  comes  to  me  often  in  silence, 

When  the  firelight  sputters  low; 
When   the  black,   uncertain   shadows 
Seem  ghosts  of  long  ago." 

— Wallace's  Farmer. 


94] 


A  New  Year's  Deer  Hunt. 


A  few  years  make  great  changes 
in  any  section  of  a  country,  but 
especially  so  when  it  happens  to 
be  located  in  a  progressive  west- 
ern state,  like  Iowa.  This  idea 
was  never  more  forcibly  presented 
to  me  than  on  a  recent  flying  trip 
through  the  northern  part  of  the 
above  named  state.  A  rich  agri- 
cultural country,  one  of  the  finest 
under  the  sun — farms,  orchards, 
and  homes  where  thirty  years  ago 
I  hunted  and  trapped.  As  our 
train  whirled  us  through  this 
lovely  pastoral  region  on  an  ideal 
September  day,  I  closed  my  eyes 
in  dreamy  meditation  and  lived 
it  all  over  again. 

It  was  New  Year's  eve — a  cold, 
still  night — and  as  the  sun  disappeared  behind  the  tree  tops 
we  hurried  our  preparations  for  the  night.  A  big  pile  of 
dry  limbs  were  cut  and  carried  in,  fresh  snow  piled  up  around 
the  bottom  of  the  tent,  the  flap  buttoned  tight,  and  we  were 
ready  for  the  night.  Lighting  the  grease  dip,  we  gathered 
around  the  red-hot  stove,  and  told  stories  until  time  to  re- 
tire. While  preparing  for  bed,  a  pack  of  wolves  across  the 
creek  treated  us  to  a  New  Year's  eve  concert,  but  it  did 
not  keep  us  awake,  and  we  were  soon  in  dreamland,  living 
over  again  the  boyhood  New  Year's  days  in  the  old  home. 
It  was  daylight  when  I  awoke,  and  unfastening  the  tent,  I 
looked  out.  A  light  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night  and 
it  was  clear,  cold,  and  calm ;  an  ideal  New  Year's  morn.  I 
had  planned  a  deer  hunt  for  the  day,  and  as  soon  as  breakfast 

[95] 


Winter  Morning  Scene. 


A  New  Year's  Deer  Hunt. 


was  over,  I  shouldered  my  gun  and  struck  out  toward  Pilot 
Mound.  The  big  arms  of  the  trees  were  loaded  with  light 
snow.  The  small  branches  and  vines  that  encircled  them  were 
drooping  chains  of  feathery  white,  and  the  few  scattering  ber- 
ries on  the  thorn-apple  shone  brighter  than  ever  from  their 
garlands  of  snow.  The  woods  were  wild  then,  and  the  new 
snow  was  written  everywhere  with  strange  characters.  Down 
by  the  creek  was  the  curious  wallowing  trail  of  the  otter,  but 
I  knew  too  much  to  follow  it.  Here  the  mink  had  taken  an 
airing  and  a  hunt  during  the  night,  but  I  was  too  well  posted 
on  mink  to  lose  any  time  with  their  tracks.  Everywhere  were 
the  tracks  of  the  big  bushy-footed  hare,  now  in  his  white  robe 
of  winter ;  and  smaller  tracks  like  those  of  the  cotton-tail,  but 
leading  to  the  trunk  of  some  big  tree  where  they  came  to  a 
sudden  end.  Here  were  tracks  of  the  little  wood-mouse  look- 
ing like  a  small  chain  had  been  dropped  in  the  snow,  and  yet, 
with  all  these  tracks  there  was  no  sign  of  life.  Silence,  vast 
and  deep,  lay  upon  the  woods.  There  was  not  even  the  bark 
of  a  squirrel  or  chirp  of  a  bird,  nor  even  a  sighing  of  a  breeze 
through  the  tree-tops,  and  save  the  occasional  flakes  of  snow 
sifting  from  the  branches,  not  a  motion  -far  or  near.  Trails  of 
deer  were  everywhere,  and  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  hundreds 
of  them  within  a  short  radius.  I  was  worried  to  know  what 
I  should  do  with  all  my  game,  but  this  was  my  first  deer  hunt 
and  I  had  lots  to  learn.  Here  three  deer  had  jumped  a  log 
whisking  the  snow  from  the  top  as  they  descended  on  the  other 
side,  and  my  hand  trembled  as  I  grasped  the  gun  with  a  firmer 
grip,  expecting  to  see  them  just  beyond  the  log. 

Onward  I  glided  with  moccasined  foot,  so  gently  that  even 
the  air  was  unruffled  by  my  movements,  watching  the  depths 
of  the  woods  far  ahead  so  intently,  with  eyes  naturally  keen 
and  long  trained  upon  other  game,  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  anything  so  large  as  a  deer  to  stir  without  my  catching  the 
motion.  How  many  have  felt  that  sweet  delusion !  There  is  no 
certainty  on  earth  that  wears  its  charm,  no  disenchantment  so 
astounding  when  the  real  truth  breaks  upon  you.  Soon  I  found 

[961 


A  New  Year's  Deer  Hunt. 


where  the  deer  had  plowed  up  the  snow  and  thrown  it  out  in 
sparkling  heaps  in  front  of  their  hoof  tracks.  And  the  next 
set  of  tracks  were  sixteen  feet  beyond,  while  all  the  snow  and 
some  of  the  berries  were  knocked  from  a  low  thorn-apple  over 
which  they  had  bounded.  A  leaden  chill  displaced  the  warm 
glow  within,  and,  as  I  wondered  how  they  could  have  known 
I  was  about,  I  was  troubled  less  about  the  disposal  of  my  game. 
It  was  no  trouble  to  find  fresh  tracks  and  I  was  soon  on  the 
trail  of  a  buck  and  a  doe  that  were  straggling  along  nipping 
buds  and  sprouts  by  the  way.  Here  they  separated  and  there 
they  came  together  again.  Here  they  had  stopped,  and  there 
gone  on,  but  nowhere  could  my  sharpest  search  discover  any- 
thing like  fur,  though  for  over  a  mile  I  followed  them  in  con- 
stant expectation  of  at  least  a  sight  of  them,  if  not  a  shot,  for 
the  feeling  grew  upon  me  that  even  a  sight  of  them  would  be 
welcome.  At  last  they  crossed  a  slough  and  entered  a  dense 
thicket  of  trees  and  underbrush.  It  was  not  probable  that  they 
would  leave  it  at  this  time  of  day  unless  frightened,  and  now 
the  problem  was  to  get  even  a  sight  of  them  in  the  dense  brush. 
Creeping  carefully  through  the  hazel  brush  on  the  border  of 
the  thicket.  I  stood  behind  a  tree  and  peered  into  the  brush 
beyond,  but  saw  nothing.  Stepping  on  a  fallen  tree  trunk,  I 
walked  toward  the  brush  end.  As  I  neared  the  top,  there  came 
a  muffled  crack  of  brush,  faint,  but  unmistakable,  and  as  I  ran 
along  the  log  to  get  a  better  place  to  see  from,  there  was  a 
thump  on  the  ground  and  again  the  crack  of  brush  louder  than 
before.  Glossy  as  the  coat  of  a  seal  rising  from  the  water, 
there  arose  over  a  log  beyond  a  high  curve  of  dark  bluish  gray. 
Over  the  log  it  went,  with  the  ease  of  dancing  light,  a  whirl 
of  white  flirting  upward  as  it  descended  on  the  other  side,  while 
almost  beside  it  rose  into  the  light  of  the  rising  sun  another 
curve  of  glistening  gray.  Over  it  went  with  the  same  flash 
of  white  as  it  descended,  and  before  it  disappeared  from  sight, 
the  first  deer  rose  again,  the  light  glistening  on  his  polished 
horns.  Deer  running  through  down  timber  and  low  brush 
make  the  most  deceptive  of  all  shots.  They  run  with  such  ease 

[97] 


A  New  Year's  Deer  Hunt. 


and  grace,  and  seem  so  near,  that  one  little  suspects  how  the 
logs  and  trees  beyond  hunger  for  lead. 

I  was  shooting  a  double-barrel  muzzle-loading  gun,  and  as 
the  big  buck  rose  over  the  second  log  I  held  low  with  great 
care  with  the  sight  glimmering  on  the  white  below  the  rising 
tail  and  pulled  the  trigger.  I  saw  the  snow  fly  from  the  top  of 
the  log  as  the  whirl  went  over  it  in  an  easy  curve.  But  how 
those  nine  buckshot  missed  that  large  body  and  got  through 
that  group  of  logs  was  a  surprise  to  me.  But  they  did,  and  my 
deer  sped  on  unhurt.  I  watched  them  as  they  bounded  across 
the  open  prairie  and  knew  that  it  would  be  useless  to  follow 
them  any  further  that  day. 

There  was  an  Indian  camp  on  Lime  Creek  above  our  own 
and  I  decided  to  take  that  in  on  my  way  back.  I  gave  up  the 
idea  of  venison  and,  hunting  carefully  on  my  way  back  to  the 
creek  for  smaller  game,  I  picked  up  a  few  rabbits  and 
pheasants,  reaching  the  Indian  camp  just  as  they  were  at  din- 
ner. I  was  hungry,  but  not  hungry  enough  to  join  them  in 
their  New  Year's  dinner.  A  big  kettle  of  stew  hung  over  the 
fire,  the  meat  part  of  which  looked  suspiciously  like  muskrat 
to  me,  and  the  balance — well,  I  would  not  even  guess  at  that. 
Over  another  fire  hung  a  kettle  full  of  some  kind  of  grease,  and 
a  squaw  was  dropping  pieces  of  dough  into  this  to  cook  them. 

It  was  3  o'clock  when  I  reached  camp,  and  dinner  was 
ready.  Ours  was  a  boiled  dinner,  too,  consisting  of  stewed 
venison,  potatoes,  cold  beans  and  hot  biscuit.  There  was  no 
second  or  third  course,  but  the  meal  was  sauced  with  a  healthy 
outdoor  appetite  that  made  it  a  feast. 

Within  an  hour  after  our  dinner  dishes  were  put  away 
the  dark,  stormy  night  closed  in.  The  wind  howled  through 
the  trees  and  the  snow  piled  against  the  tent,  but  our  double 
tent  and  red-hot  stove  defied  the  wintry  blasts.  Jokes,  stories, 
anecdotes  of  bad  misses  and  mishaps  whiled  away  the  hours 
until  bed-time. 

— Outers'  Book. 


[98] 


Springtime  in  the  Country. 

"Oh!  breath  of  the  springtime,  your  soft  air  I  bless; 
You  wake  the  sweet  flowers  with  your  tender  caress. 
And  May,  with  your  sunshine,  most  gladly  I  greet,  . 
You  tempt  into  blossom  my  brier  bush  sweet." 

Spring  in  the  country !  What  a  glorious  season  it  is !  Not 
to  feel  the  sweet  influences  of  this  creative  season  in  the  coun- 
try is  to  be  shut  within  the  walls  of  a  living  prison. 

The  farm  is  so  near  to  nature,  so  near  to  God,  especially 
on  a  balmy  spring  morning,  when  all  is  so  still,  sweet  and 
peaceful,  that  we  who  were  reared  in  a  country  home,  and  blest 
by  it,  can  never  forget  those  happy  spring  days  on  the  old  farm. 

He  who  cannot  go  out  to  his  work  whistling  on  a  bright, 
dewy  April  morning  is  deaf  to  the  richest  of  God's  seasons  and 
blessings.  Why,  everything  feels  it.  The  young  calves  and 
colts  in  the  barnyard,  the  lambs  in  the  pasture,  the  birds  in 
the  hedgerow  and  the  swallows  circling  and  sailing  overhead. 
Even  the  earth  beneath  your  feet,  for — 

"Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers; 
And  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 
Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers." 

From  the  time  when  the  first  little  blade  thrusts  its  green 
head  above  the  sod,  until  June  comes  with  her  garlands  of 
roses,  spring  is  the  regal  queen  that  rules  the  land. 

To  be  sure,  the  flowers  of  spring  are  not  so  gay  colored 
and  gorgeous  as  those  of  summer  and  early  autumn.  They  are 
more  subdued  in  color  and  delicate  of  odor,  but  there  is  a  fresh- 
ness about  them  that  wins  the  heart  of  every  beholder. 

Writing  of  spring  flowers,  brings  back  the  days  when  I 
used  to  follow  the  drag  across  the  old  "wood  lot."  This  field 
was  inclosed  with  a  rail  fence.  Here,  in  the  protected  corners 
of  the  old  zigzag  fence,  I  used  to  find  the  first  blossoms  of 
spring  and  the  first  wild  strawberries  of  early  summer.  How 
eagerly  I  used  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  modest  little 

[99] 


Springtime  in  the  Country. 


violet  hidden  away  in  the  corners  of  the  fence  under  the  bottom 
rail.  I  do  not  mean  the  tri-colored  pansy,  but  the  little  old- 
fashioned  "retiring  violet,"  that  has  been  immortalized  in  prose 
and  poetry  for  the  last  3,000  years. 

Pleasant  it  would  be  to  linger  with  those  old  spring  flow- 
ers and  bring  them  up  one  by  one,  the  daisies,  cowslips,  daffo- 
dils, hawthorns,  wild  honeysuckles  and  many  others.  They 
were  all  dear  to  me  and  many  a  scolding  have  I  got  for  not 
driving  the  team  closer  to  the  fence  when  making  the  turns 
at  the  end  of  the  field. 

The  wild  flowers  are  not  the  only  ones  to  lend  their 
fragrance  and  grace  to  the  beautifying  of  the  landscape.  There 
is  a  wealth  of  beauty  in  the  orchard  blossoms  of  early  spring. 
Especially  is  this  true  of  the  apple  and  peach,  with  their  sweet 
fragrance,  symmetrical  petals  and  delicately  blended  colorings. 
Not  only  are  the  orchard  blossoms  a  thing  of  beauty  in  the 
spring,  but  they  give  joyful  promise  of  a  bountiful  harvest  of 
luscious  fruit. 

It  is  said  that  "the  lightest  thoughts  have  their  roots  in 
gravity,"  and  so  it  is  with  this  flowery,  vernal  season.  Back  of 
all  lies  the  consciousness  that  the  world  is  young  again ;  that 
seeding  time  has  come  round  and  he  who  would  reap  must  sow. 

Nature  has  begun  again,  and  in  every  flower,  bud  and 
blade  of  grass  the  husbandman  sees  her  promised  rewards  for 
his  labors.  No  season  of  the  year,  and  no  occupation,  brings 
man  in  such  close  touch  with  nature  as  when  he  co-operates 
with  her  in  the  planting  season  of  the  year. 

However  apathetic  the  rest  of  the  world  may  be  at  this 
season,  people  who  live  in  the  country  understand  and  enjoy 
it.  The  farmer,  as  he  stands  in  his  orchard  and  looks  down  the 
long  rows  of  trees  dressed  in  their  spring  robes  of  white,  pink 
and  green,  looks  ahead  with  keenest  pleasure  to  those  days 

when  autumn    «,,ri,          •  , , 

With  magic  wand  shall  turn  to  gold 

The  grain  fields  broad  and  fair, 
And  within  her  arms  shall  hold 

A  wealth  of  apple,  peach  and  pear." 

[100] 


Springtime  in  the  Country. 


The  farmers'  wives  and  daughters  hang  over  the  sweet 
little  firstling-flowers  each  return  of  spring  with  the  same  keen 
delight  as  though  the  world  were  new  born  and  this  their  first 
visit. 

Thus  it  is :  this  wonderful  resurrection  of  life  and  beauty 
out  of  the  death-sleep  of  winter  has  a  meaning  in  it  for  the 
country  dweller  that  cannot  be  comprehended  by  those  who 
live  within  the  walled  and  paved  streets  of  the  city. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  stop  to  think  why  our  cities  spend 
so  much  money  on  their  park  systems?  It  is  to  bring  the  coun- 
try, nature — God's  beautiful  outdoors — within  reach  of  the 
poor,  pent-up  city  residents.  How  eagerly  the  people  flock  to 
them  as  soon  as  the  warm  rays  of  the  spring  sun  has  loosed 
the  little  lakes  from  the  icy  bonds  of  winter  and  turned  the  sod 
green !  How  quickly  the  care-worn  expression  of  city  strife  is 
replaced  with  sunny  smiles  when  once  among  the  birds,  trees 
and  flowers ! 

Happy  indeed  should  they  be  who  live  constantly  where 
they  can  feel  and  enter  into  the  spirit  of  God's  works  at  this 
awakening  season. 

"Gentle  spring,  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display; 
For  winter  maketh  the  gay  heart  sad, 

But  thou — thou  makest  the   sad  heart  gay!" 

— Twentieth  Century  Farmer. 


[  101  ] 


"Entering  the  Narrows." 

Two  Days  on  the  St.  Vrain. 

If  the  reader  will  take  a  map  of  Colorado  and  locate  the 
little  town  of  Lyons  (forty-eight  miles  north  of  Denver,  the 
terminus  of  the  Estes  Park,  branch  of  the  Burlington  &  Mis- 
souri River  Railroad)  he  will  find  a  crooked  little  mountain 
stream  called  the  St.  Vrain.  Taking  its  rise  away  up  among 
the  snow-capped  peaks  on  the  "Continental  Divide,"  it  winds 
and  twists  its  way  down  the  eastern  slopes  merging  into 
civilization  at  Lyons.  After  leaving  its  rock-bound  bed  it 
glides  out  into  a  broad,  fertile  valley.  On  either  bank  are  rich, 
alluvial  lands,  the  course  of  the  river  through  which  can  be 

[103] 


Two  Days  on  the  St.  Vrain. 


traced  by  the  fringe  of  timber  along  each  bank,  until  lost  to 
sight  in  the  distance.  These  lands  are  all  under  irrigation  and 
everything  indicates  comfort  and  prosperity. 

\Yhat  a  beautiful  pastoral  picture  was  presented  to  us  as 
we  sped  up  the  valley  one  September  afternoon !  People  were 
busy  harvesting  and  the  orchards  hung  full  of  rich,  ripe  fruit. 

Friday  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  we  took  our 
rods  and  camera  and  started  down  stream.  The  day  was  bright 
and  warm,  and  the  country  was  beautiful  under  the  mellow- 
ing influence  of  early  autumn. 

"Bright  autumn  comes,  a  regal  queen, 

In  royal  robes  arrayed; 

Her    crown    the    rainbow's    changing    sheen, 
That  spans  the  clear  cascade." 

Down  the  valley  from  Lyons,  the  river  has  worn  a  wide 
channel  during  the  lapse  of  ages,  through  the  center  of  which 
it  meanders,  sparkling  and  bright,  over  a  gravelly  bottom,  rip- 
pling occasionally  around  a  boulder  with  scarcely  an  audible 
murmur  as  if  unwilling  to  disturb  the  repose  of  nature.  At 
places  the  channel  narrows,  the  river  tumbles  over  the  rocky 
bottom  for  a  few  rods  under  the  over-hanging  willows,  then 
glides  out  into  a  broad  quiet  pool.  These  are  the  places  where 
the  big  trout  hide. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  we  returned  to  the  hotel,  tired 
and  hungry,  but  feeling  well  repaid  for  our  long  tramp. 

The  next  day  we  hired  a  team  and  guide  for  a  drive  up  the 
St.  Vrain,  and  what  a  change  from  a  clay  before !  A  half- 
mile  from  town,  we  crossed  a  long  bridge  and  entered  the  nar- 
row rock-walled  canon  of  the  South  Fork.  The  broad  stream 
in  its  course,  narrows  into  crevices  between  the  hills,  in  roar- 
ing, foaming  rapids,  the  distant  music  of  which,  with  the  soft 
wind  in  the  pines,  spruces  and  cedars,  makes  the  most  sooth- 
ing of  nature's  lullabies. 

In  places  the  stream  broadens  into  placid,  smiling  pools, 
always  deep,  cold  and  clear,  and  always  locked  in  the  embrace 

[104] 


Two  Days  on  the  St.  Vrain. 


of  those  eternal  hills.  For  centuries,  these  mountains  have 
stood  mantled  in  sombre  green  or  wrapped  in  snow — watching 
with  unchanging  mien  the  tiny  humans  crawling  up  and  down 
their  sides  or  along  the  river's  edge.  Whether  obscured  by 
clouds  of  mist  and  rain,  or  bathed  in  the  warm  sunlight  of 
noonday,  they  are  always  the  same,  grand  and  beautiful. 

As  we  proceed,  the  canon  grows  narrower  and  narrower. 
The  mountains  tower  higher  on  either  hand  until  all  we  can  see 
are  the  rugged  walls  of  granite  and  a  clear  strip  of  blue  sky 
over  our  heads.  Now  and  then  a  mass  of  snowy  cloud  drifts 
rapidly  over,  looking  like  a  huge  pile  of  foam  floating  in  a  sea 
of  blue. 

Near  the  "Little  Narrows"  the  canyon  walls  encroach  upon 
the  stream  until  there  is  no  room  for  the  road.  Timbers  have 
been  set  into  the  solid  rock  and  a  plank  road  built  over  the 
water.  A  short  distance  above  the  "Narrows"  the  road  crosses 
to  the  south  side,  follows  the  old  bed  of  the  stream  for  a  short 
distance,  then  crosses  back  to  the  north  side,  makes  a  sharp 
turn  and  enters  the  "Big  Narrows."  It  seems  an  impossibility 
to  get  through  these  with  our  carriage,  but  the  road  winds 
back  and  forth  across  the  river  among  the  rocks ;  a  half  hour's 
hard  climbing  brings  us  out  in  a  pretty  basin  near  the  falls. 
We  all  get  out,  rest  up,  and  hunt  specimens  for  an  hour  or  two, 
before  starting  on  the  return  drive. 

The  impressive  scenery,  however,  is  not  the  only  attrac- 
tion along  this  stream,  for  it  is  the  home  of  the  rainbow  and 
mountain  trout.  About  three  miles  from  town  we  overtake 
two  anglers  and,  in  answer  to  our  inquiry  "What  luck?"  they 
raise  the  cover  of  their  baskets  and  show  us  full  creels  of  beau- 
ties ;  one  of  the  largest  being  sixteen  and  a  half  inches  in 
length. 

Just  as  we  reach  the  open  valley,  the  sun  sinks  slowly  be- 
hind the  mountain  tops  and  shadows  creep  down  the  slope 
behind  us.  Gradually  the  shadows  grow  longer  and  longer, 
chasing  before  them  the  golden  light  of  day,  until  all  that  indi- 
cates the  presence  of  the  sun  before  the  horizon  is  a  bright  line 

[105] 


Two  Days  on  the  St.  Vrain. 


of  light ;  one  moment  more,  this,  too,  is  gone  and  darkness  set- 
tles down  upon  everything  around  us. 

We  leave  Lyons  in  the  early  morning,  but  the  scenes  of 
yesterday  go  with  us,  for  when  once  those  mountains,  valleys 
and  streams  have  entered  a  man's  consciousness  they  never 
leave  it. 

Ah!  the  dear  day-dream  of  that  silvery  stream, 

With  the  mountain  towering  o'er; 
The  cool  air  blent  with  piney  scent 

And  the  tints  of  wooded  shore. 

— Hastings  Tribune. 


106] 


Lost  on  the  Prairie. 

The  life  of  the  sportsman  is  a  medley,  made  up  of  good 
days,  and  bad  days,  and  we  are  apt  to  remember  best  those  that 
gave  us  the  largest  bag  of  game,  the  best  basket  of  fish,  or.  the 
most  pleasure.  But  here  and  there,  scattered  along  life's  jour- 
ney, we  find  a  day  that  may  be  well  remembered,  that  we  enjoy 
much  more  in  retrospect  than  we  did  the  actual  experience. 
I  can  assure  you,  dear  reader,  that  such  is  the  case  with  the 
incident  I  am  giving  you  here. 

In  the  fall  of  '72  I  was  camped  on  the  west  end  of  Clear 
Lake,  Iowa,  with  three  companions,  shooting,  fishing  and  en- 
joying life  as  only  four  jolly  sportsmen  can ;  living  under  a  can- 
vas roof,  with  game  and  fish  in  plenty,  and  the  restraints  and 
cares  of  business  left  200  miles  behind.  We  arrived  in  Sep- 
tember, got  our  camp  in  shape,  and  all  through  this  month  and 
well  up  into  October  had  the  finest  kind  of  shooting  of  chickens, 
within  a  mile  or  so  of  camp ;  but,  as  the  weather  grew  colder, 
the  chickens  bunched  up  and  became  more  wary.  About  this 
time  ducks,  geese  and  cranes  began  coming  down  from  the 
north,  and  we  divided  our  time  between  the  chickens  and  wa- 
ter fowl — shooting  the  former  early  and  late,  and  the  chickens 
in  the  warm  part  of  the  day.  Eventually  game  grew  scarce 
around  the  lake,  and  we  had  to  make  long  pilgrimages,  north, 
south,  and  west,  to  get  a  good  bag.  As  I  was  returning  one 
evening  from  a  hunt,  I  noticed  several  flocks  of  ducks,  circling 
around  over  a  field,  and  on  going  to  the  place  discovered  it  to 
be  a  piece  of  late  buckwheat  that  had  just  been  harvested.  The 
ducks  were  having  a  regular  picnic  in  it,  and  apparently  had 
not  been  molested,  as  hundreds  of  them  arose  and  left  for  the 
lake  on  my  approach.  I  did  not  fire  a  shot,  but  went  to  work 
and  built  a  couple  of  good  blinds,  and  made  an  appointment  to 
occupy  it  Monday  morning.  I  kept  my  little  secret,  intending 
to  surprise  the  boys  Monday  with  a  bag  of  game  that  would 
make  their  eyes  stick  out.  I  would  shoot  ducks  in  the  morning, 

[107] 


Lost  on  the  Prairie. 


then  hunt  chickens  during  the  day,  and  work  back  to  the  buck- 
wheat for  the  evening  flight. 

Sunday  evening,  while  we  were  lounging  around  under 
the  trees  enjoying  our  after-supper  smoke,  I  heard  an  almost 
continual  firing  from  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  until  after  dark. 
This  was  in  the  direction  of  my  buckwheat  field,  and  I  had 
grave  fears  that  it  was  being  shot  out,  as  after-dark  work  will 
ruin  the  best  of  flight  shooting.  Monday  brought  one  of  those 
grand  autumnal  mornings,  so  often  seen  in  prairie  countries. 
Hazy  atmosphere,  and  a  cool,  bracing  breeze  from  the  north- 
west, full  of  nature's  life-giving  tonic.  I  was  astir  early. 
Lighting  the  camp  lantern,  I  got  a  cold  bite,  put  a  lunch  in  my 
pocket,  called  old  Don,  and  was  off.  I  made  lively  tracks  for 
the  buckwheat  field,  and  had  barely  time  to  get  fixed  in  my 
blind,  when  a  flock  of  ducks  appeared  over  the  timber  in  the 
east.  They  had  just  commenced  leaving  the  lake  for  their 
morning  feed ;  but  in  vain  did  I  strain  my  eyes  to  catch  a  flock 
coming  my  way.  A  few  scattering  birds  came  in  toward  the 
field  on  a  scout,  circled  around  at  a  safe  distance,  and  then  left 
for  other  parts.  Just  as  I  had  feared :  They  had  been  pounded 
so  hard,  and  so  late,  Sunday  evening,  that  they  had  been  burned 
off  their  feeding  ground,  and  it  would  be  many  a  day  before 
there  would  be  any  more  shooting  in  that  field.  The  sun  was 
well  up  above  the  tree  tops,  when  I  called  Don,  and  struck  off 
across  the  prairie  toward  a  field  of  wheat  shocks.  It  seemed  to 
be  my  day  off;  though  we  hunted  hard  all  the  forenoon,  we 
struck  only  one  covey  of  chickens,  and  they  left  the  country 
on  the  first  rise.  About  noon  I  turned  the  point  of  a  steep  hill  I 
had  been  circling,  and  came  suddenly  out  on  the  shores  of  a 
pretty  little  prairie  lake — an  ideal  place  to  lunch  and  loaf  away 
the  mid-day  hours.  I  got  out  our  bite,  and,  with  Don's  help,  put 
it  where  it  would  do  the  most  good.  After  lunch,  I  got  out  the 
old  briar-root  and  took  a  smoke ;  then  stretched  out  on  the 
brown  grass  for  a  nap.  It  was  well  along  in  the  afternoon  when 
I  awoke,  and  set  off  across  the  prairie  towards  the  lake.  From 
the  top  of  a  high  hill  I  could  look  far  off  to  the  north  and  see 

U08] 


Lost  on  the  Prairie. 


a  dark  line  of  timber.  That  I  knew  was  the  grove  in  which  our 
tent  was  pitched.  I  kept  my  general  course  toward  this  land- 
mark, working  out  to  the  right  and  left  to  take  in  as  many 
stubble  fields  as  possible,  but  the  birds  seemed  to  have  all  left 
the  country. 

Just  before  sundown  I  noticed  a  large  flock  of  chickens 
coming  down  from  the  lake,  and,  about  a  half  mile  ahead  of 
me  they  set  their  wings  and  dropped  down  into  an  old  dry 
slough — locally  called  the  "peat  bed."  It  seemed  that  my  hard 
day's  work  was  to  be  rewarded  with  success.  Everything 
pointed  to  the  best  hour's  sport  that  I  had  ever  enjoyed  on 
chickens.  Before  me  in  the  tall  grass  was  a  flock  of  several 
hundred  full-grown  birds ;  the  wind  was  just  right  for  working 
over  the  ground ;  the  dew  was  falling  and  the  birds  were  sure 
to  hold  well  in  such  good  cover  so  late  in  the  day.  Old  Don, 
like  myself,  had  grown  pretty  well  discouraged,  and,  when  he 
struck  the  edge  of  the  tall  grass,  was  ranging  close  in  and  about 
ready  to  quit  on  the  least  encouragement  from  me.  When  he 
caught  the  scent  of  the  covey  he  stopped  as  though  paralyzed, 
his  nostrils  began  to  quiver  and  he  looked  back  to  see  if  I  was 
on  hand ;  then,  worked  cautiously  forward  into  the  tall  grass, 
and  stiffened  out  on  a  beautiful  point.  Three  birds  got  up  from 
under  his  nose,  and  I  knocked  down  two  of  them.  The  old  dog 
worked  up  a  few  steps  and  came  to  another  point.  Four  birds 
got  up  and  two  of  them  let  go,  at  the  crack  of  the  little  l'?-bore. 
Thus  the  sport  went  on  until  it  grew  so  dark  that  I  had  to  drop 
on  my  knees  in  order  to  get  a  better  light  on  the  rising  birds. 
Darkness  at  last  put  an  end  to  the  shooting,  and  taking  the  last 
bird  from  Don's  mouth,  I  slipped  it  into  my  pocket  and  looked 
off  to  the  northward  for  my  landmark.  It  had  disappeared  in 
the  gathering  gloom  of  night,  and  I  was  alone  on  the  prairie. 
This  did  not  worry  me  much  at  the  time,  for,  I  was  sure  that 
I  knew  the  locality  and  could  lay  my  course  straight  for  camp. 
Arranging  my  heavy  load  so  it  would  carry  easy,  I  struck  off 
across  the  prairie  with  a  heavy  bag  and  a  light  heart.  The  night 
had  shut  down  very  suddenly  and  very  dark.  The  wind  was 

[109] 


Lost  on  the  Prairie. 


blowing  from  the  northwest  cold  and  damp ;  but  I  did  not  mind 
it.  I  was  used  to  these  tramps  and  consoled  myself  with  the 
thought  that  I  would  soon  be  at  camp  to  surprise  the  boys  with 
my  big  bag  of  birds  and  sit  down  to  a  nice,  warm  supper.  Thus 
my  thoughts  ran,  as  I  trudged  wearily  along  through  the  wet 
grass  towards  home. 

How  different  the  world  looks  to  one  under  the  varying 
conditions  we  meet  along  life's  journey !  A  short  hour  earlier 
I  had  but  three  chickens  in  my  coat  pockets,  and  was  tired,  dis- 
satisfied, and  discouraged.  Now,  everything  was  changed,  and 
I  climbed  the  steep  hill  towards  camp,  whistling  as  happy  as  a 
lark.  But  I  was  destined  to  see  yet  another  turn  of  fortune's 
wheel  before  reaching  my  goal.  After  walking  long  enough,  as 
I  thought,  to  reach  the  timber,  I  sat  down  on  a  boulder  to  rest, 
and  have  a  smoke.  It  was  very  cold,  and,  when  I  came  to  make 
a  move,  I  found  I  was  so  tired  and  stiff  that  I  could  hardly  get 
on  my  feet.  I  left  part  of  my  chickens  there  and  made  another 
start,  but  had  walked  but  a  few  steps  before  I  found  myself 
wading  through  grass  nearly  to  my  shoulders,  and  the  footing 
very  much  as  though  I  was  walking  on  a  straw  stack.  I  knew 
too  well  what  it  meant — I  was  back  in  the  old  peat  bed  where  I 
had  shot  my  chickens.  In  a  word,  I  was  lost  on  the  prairie.  I 
knelt  down,  scratched  a  match  and  looked  at  my  watch.  It 
was  nearly  10  o'clock,  and  here  I  was,  just  as  far  from  camp  as 
when  I  started  and  so  tired  I  could  hardly  stand. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  go  any  farther,  and  equally  impos- 
sible to  stay  where  I  was.  I  must  keep  moving,  or  I  would 
soon  be  unable  to  move;  so,  taking  my  bearings  from  the  wind, 
I  made  a  new  start.  I  trudged  wearily  along,  my  gun  and 
chickens  growing  heavier  all  the  time,  until,  completely  fagged 
out,  I  was  obliged  to  sit  down  again  to  rest.  After  a  short 
breathing  spell  I  pulled  myself  together  for  another  attempt, 
thinking  I  would  surely  make  the  timber  without  having  to 
stop  again,  but  had  not  gone  ten  rods  before  I  found  myself 
once  more  wading  into  the  tall  grass  of  a  peat  bed.  I  sat  down 
and  pondered  over  the  situation. 

[110] 


Lost  on  the  Prairie. 


A  misty  rain  had  set  in,  it  was  getting  colder  every  min- 
ute, and  my  only  chance  was  to  keep  my  blood  circulating  by 
exercise  until  I  could  reach  camp,  or  strike  a  house — and  there 
was  little  hope  of  the  latter,  as  there  was  not  a  house  in  sight 
when  the  sun  went  down.  Knowing  the  general  trend  of  the 
peat  bed,  I  figured  that  I  could  follow  its  northern  margin 
westward  to  its  end  and  then  strike  squarely  to  the  right  and 
reach  the  timber.  As  a  first  step  I  threw  away  the  rest  of  my 
game.  After  what  seemed  hours  of  tedious  walking,  a  bright 
light  suddenly  flashed  before  me  and  was  instantly  gone.  A 
few  steps  farther  on  I  ran  against  a  farm  wagon.  I  yelled 
"Hello !"  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  waited  results,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  saw  a  man  standing  before  a  window  lighting  a 
lamp.  He  threw  open  the  door  and  stood  staring  out  into  the 
night,  with  the  light  held  high  above  his  head.  I  anxiously 
inquired  for  directions  to  a  hunters'  camp  near  the  foot  of 
Clear  Lake.  He  courteously  invited  me  to  come  in  and  rest, 
commenting  upon  my  "used  up"  appearance  and  adding  with 
a  laugh,  "Well,  I  believe  it's  the  worst  case  of  'lost'  I  ever 
saw." 

The  truth  dawned  upon  me  almost  instantly :  I  was  in 
the  house  of  Mr.  W.,  and  hardly  forty  rods  from  our  camp.  I 
had  visited  the  house  every  day  for  weeks,  buying  milk,  butter 
and  vegetables  for  camp  use,  and  had  stopped  and  talked  with 
W.  the  evening  before  for  an  hour.  When  the  situation  dawned 
upon  my  beclouded  mind,  it  was  so  ridiculous  that  I  could  not 
blame  him  for  laughing  at  me.  I  rested  a  little,  got  a  drink  of 
milk,  and  then  Mr.  W.  pointed  out  the  fire  my  friends  had  been 
keeping  up  for  me  all  night.  It  was  after  2  o'clock  when  I 
straggled  into  camp  and  found  one  of  the  boys  waiting  for  me. 
To  his  inquiries  I  replied  that  I  had  gone  out  of  my  way  a  little 
coming  in,  but  made  it  all  right  after  a  long  walk.  It  was 
only  a  few  days,  however,  until  the  boys  found  out  all  about 
it,  and  they  never  ceased  joking  me  during  the  four  months  we 
spent  together  in  camp. 

— Sports  Afield. 
[Ill] 


A  Winter  Night's  Tale. 

A  number  of  years  ago  Arthur  B.  and  the  writer,  in  com- 
pany with  two  other  shooting  friends,  had  gone  into  our  winter 
camp  in  northern  Iowa,  where  we  spent  two  months  trapping 
and  hunting.  The  first  really  heavy  snow  of  the  season  had 
been  falling  all  day.  Charlie  and  Al  W.  had  started  off  early 
to  make  their  line  of  traps — intending  to  hunt  across  the  ridges 
on  their  way  home  and  pick  up  a  deer  if  possible.  When  the 
early  December  night  closed  in  they  had  not  yet  returned  ;  but 
this  did  not  worry  us  any,  as  they  had  been  over  the  ground 
many  times  and  were  well  acquainted  with  the  country.  More 
than  likely  they  had  followed  a  deer  too  far  to  get  home  and 
put  up  with  some  settler  for  the  night.  About  10  o'clock  we 
fixed  the  fire  for  the  night  and  crawled  into  our  bunk.  Arthur 
was  soon  asleep  and  I  was  on  the  borders  of  Dreamland,  when 
I  heard  the  rattle  of  a  farm  wagon  and  the  Yip-yip-yip  of  a 
pack  of  wolves,  coming  up  the  river  road.  I  nudged  Arthur, 
listened  a  minute  and  said :  "Yes ;  that  is  that  drunken  Swede 
coming  home  from  town  again — no  danger  of  the  wolves  hurt- 
ing him." 

The  road  wound  along  the  creek  bank  near  our  camp,  be- 
tween big  stumps — some  of  which  just  barely  cleared  the 
wheels — and  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  escaped  them.  The  team 
was  young  and  lively  ;  he  was  giving  them  their  head  :  and  they 
were  cutting  a  furious  pace  as  they  came  tearing  along  over 
the  frozen  road.  When  nearly  opposite  our  camp,  there  was  a 
crash  and  we  heard  the  team  go  flying  up  the  road  with  the 
whiffletrees  slapping  against  their  legs.  Arthur  jumped  out  of 
bed,  opened  the  tent  flap  and  listened  a  few  minutes ;  not  a 
sound  could  be  heard,  save  the  snarling  of  the  wolf  pack. 
"Will,"  said  he,  "get  into  your  clothes  and  come  on  !  That  poor 
devil  is  probably  stunned  and  those  cowardly  brutes  will  tear 
him  to  pieces  before  we  can  get  to  him." 

The  storm  was  clearing  off.  It  was  a  beautiful  winter's 
night,  but  we  had  no  time  to  admire  it.  When  about  100  yards 

[1131 


A  Winter  Night's  Tale. 


from  the  snarling  pack,  we  heard  four  sharp  reports  in  quick 
succession.  Then  all  was  still.  Turning  a  sharp  bend  in  the 
creek,  we  came  suddenly  upon  the  scene.  There  stood  our  two 
partners  with  guns  in  hand,  staring  at  the  overturned  wagon- 
box  and  a  dead  wolf;  but  no  Swede  was  in  sight. 

"Where  on  earth  is  Ole?"  said  I  to  the  boys,  as  we  came 
up  to  them. 

"That  is  just  what  we  are  trying  to  decide,"  said  Al. 

"Boys,"  I  continued,  "he  was  in  the  wagon,  for  we  heard 
him  singing,  and  I  am  very  sure,  from  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
that  he  was  too  full  to  get  far  away,  and  you  were  on  the 
ground  so  soon  after  the  smash  that  the  wolves  could  not  have 
made  away  with  him." 

"Look  here,  boys,"  said  Charlie ;  "when  we  came  in  sight, 
these  sneaking  wolves  were  gathered  around  the  wagon-box 
and  it  may  be  he  is  under  there." 

The  moon  shone  forth  brightly  from  under  a  bank  of 
clouds  just  as  we  tipped  up  the  wagon  bed.  There  lay  poor 
Ole — apparently  dead  ;  his  head  in  a  pool  of  blood  and  the  snow 
dyed  crimson  all  around  him.  Turning  him  over,  I  found  an 
ugly  scalp  wound,  but  could  discover  no  fracture.  He  was  still 
alive ;  so  we  got  him  on  the  hind-wheels  of  his  wagon  and  took 
him  to  camp.  We  washed  and  dressed  his  wound  and  put  in 
the  rest  of  the  night  working  over  him.  An  hour  before  sun- 
rise he  recovered  consciousness,  and  from  then  on  improved  so 
rapidly  that  in  the  afternoon  he  was  able  to  be  moved  home ; 
but  it  was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  go  to  town  again. 
He  was  very  thankful  to  us  for  saving  his  life,  and  well  he 
might  be ;  for  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  nearness  of  our  camp 
and  our  ability  to  care  for  him,  it  would  have  been  his  last  trip 
to  town. 

— Sports  Afield. 


[114] 


A  Day  in  Ellington  Woods. 


"Evening  in  Ellington  woods. 


In  writing  of  one's  experiences 
afield  and  astream,  many  narra- 
tors derive  most  pleasure  in  tell- 
ing of  the  days  when  they  got  the 
heaviest  bags  or  fullest  creel ;  but 
it  is  not  so  with  the  writer.  Some 
of  the  happiest  outings  ever  par- 
ticipated in  would  be  called  a  fail- 
ure if  measured  by  the  contents 
of  my  game  pockets,  or  by  the 
weight  of  my  fish  basket.  In  the 
lovely  autumn  season  I  enjoy  a 
ramble  in  the  wood  or  a  row  on 
the  river,  purely  for  the  pleasure 
of  being  with  nature  and  away  from  the  hurrying,  dollar- 
getting  world.  Not  only  do  such  rambles  furnish  present 
enjoyment  to  the  nature  lover,  but  retrospectively  furnish 
him  pleasure  through  all  his  days,  smoothing  the  way  for 
the  faltering  step  in  the  winter  of  life. 

I  have  a  rich  store  of  such  memories  to  draw  on,  but  none 
of  them  furnish  me  more  pleasure  than  that  of  an  afternoon's 
squirrel  hunt  in  Ellington  wood.  It  was  one  of  those  lovely 
second-summer  mornings  when  all  the  world  seems  to  rejoice, 
that  I  stepped  out  of  the  house  on  my  way  to  the  office.  Stand- 
ing on  the  porch  I  looked  in  silent  admiration  across  the  fields 
to  Lime  Creek.  The  first  cold  snap  had  come  and  coated  the 
stream  with  an  inch  of  ice.  Following  it,  had  come  those  azure 
Indian  summer  days  when  the  very  heavens  were  golden,  the 
nights  clear  and  frosty,  and  the  mid-day  sunny  and  warm.  Out 
of  the  rosy  east  the  morning  sun  sent  long  mellow  shafts  of 
gold  aslant  the  autumn-tinted  foliage  along  the  creek  bank. 
The  hills  on  the  far  side  were  clothed  in  a  rich-hued  garb  that 
formed  a  fitting  frame  to  the  glorious  panorama  stretching 

[115] 


A  Day  in  Ellington  Woods. 


away  to  the  east.  With  a  sigh,  I  pulled  out  my  appointment 
book  and  looked  over  the  day's  page.  The  forenoon  was  all 
booked,  but  I  could  arrange  to  get  off  for  the  afternoon.  Turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Steele,  who  was  standing  in  the  door,  I  said : 
"Little  Partner,  how  would  you  like  to  spend  the  afternoon  in 
Ellington  wood?"  She  replied:  "Just  the  thing,  Will;  I  knew 
what  you  were  thinking  about." 

(  hi  the  way  to  lunch  I  met  my  friend,  J.  F.,  and  asked 
him  if  he  and  Mrs.  T.  would  not  like  to  join  us.  The  invitation 
was  promptly  accepted  and  2  o'clock  found  four  happy  people 
whirling  away  down  the  creek  road  behind  a  lively  span  of 
bays.  A  four-mile  drive  on  the  main  road  brought  us  to  a  blind 
cross-road.  Turning  into  this  we  drove  back  into  the  timber 
twenty  rods  and  hitched  the  team.  ,  The  ladies  had  plans  of 
their  own  for  the  afternoon,  and  would  not  join  us  in  the  hunt. 
J.  F.  and  I  filled  our  pockets  with  shells,  shouldered  the  guns 
and  struck  out  for  the  squirrel  timber.  We  were  hardly  among 
the  big  trees  when  an  animal  ran  pattering  over  the  leaves  and 
up  the  side  of  a  dead  tree.  Just  as  he  disappeared  in  a  hole. 
I  fired,  but  scored  a  miss.  We  passed  through  this  strip  of 
woods  without  seeing  any  more  signs  of  game,  and,  crawling 
through  a  barbed  wire  fence,  entered  an  old  half-cleared  corn 
field.  We  had  half  crossed  the  field  when  a  squirrel  scurried 
over  the  ground  and  up  the  side  of  a  dead  tree.  It  was  a  large 
gray  and  we  wanted  him.  I  stayed  where  I  was,  while  J.  F. 
worked  cautiously  in  the  direction  of  the  tree.  As  soon  'as  in 
range,  he  slowly  raised  his  gun  and  I  was  anticipating  its  re- 
port, when  the  squirrel  suddenly  vanished  back  of  the  tree. 
J.  F.  approached  the  tree  and  I  walked  to  where  he  stood.  He 
had  hardly  reached  a  point  where  he  could  see  the  back  of  the 
tree,  when  there  was  a  quick  flash  of  gray  and  the  squirrel  ap- 
peared on  my  side.  I  was  not  quick  enough ;  the  sly  little 
rascal  observed  my  movement  and  slipped  to  the  other  side ; 
but  my  companion's  gun  spoke  and,  as  the  echoes  reverberated 
among  the  painted  hillsides,  he  picked  up  the  first  squirrel  of 
the  day. 

[116] 


A  Day  in  Ellington  Woods. 


We  reached  the  edge  of  the  wood  again  without  getting 
another  shot,  but  had  hardly  gone  100  feet  along  the  ridge 
when,  hearing  a  rustle  in  the  leaves,  I  turned  my  head  just  in 
time  to  catch  sight  of  a  gray  streak  disappearing  in  the  leafy 
top  of  a  big  tree.  J.  F.  and  I  surrounded  the  tree,  and,,  walking 
slowly  around  it,  peered  up  amongst  the  thickly  leaved 
branches ;  but  not  a  sign  of  gray  could  we  see.  We  took  up 
our  watch  on  opposite  sides  of  the  tree,  standing  motionless. 
The  faintest  breath  of  an  Indian  summer  breeze  rustled  the 
leaves  overhead,  causing  their  variegated  hues  to  shimmer  in 
the  slanting  rays  of  .the  afternoon  sun. 

Several  times  I  thought  I  saw  a  moving  gray  spot  among 
the  leaves,  but  closer  observation  would  prove  it  to  be  a  flicker- 
ing leaf.  My  neck  beginning  to  ache  from  such  steady  gazing 
into  the  tree-top,  I  decided  to  change  our  plans.  There  was  a 
large  bunch  of  leaves  in  the  crotch  near  the  top.  I  told  J.  F. 
to  fire  a  shot  into  it,  and,  at  the  report,  a  shower  of  leaves  came 
floating  down  on  the  breeze.  To  say  that  we  were  surprised  at 
the  result  would  be  putting  it  mildly,  for  down  with  the  leaves 
came  four  squirrels,  one  dead,  and  one  wounded,  while  the 
other  two  dashed  off  with  both  of  us  in  pursuit.  After  a  short 
run  they  treed  and  continued  their  homeward  flight  among 
the  branches  overhead.  One  of  them  stopped  a  second,  to  bal- 
ance himself  for  a  long  leap,  and  I  caught  a  bead  on  him  just 
as  he  gathered  for  the  spring.  He  left  the  limb  as  the  gun 
cracked,  and,  clearing  the  limb  eight  or  ten  feet,  dropped  to 
the  ground  dead.  J.  F.  fired  at  the  other  one,  which  had  turned 
to  run  in  the  opposite  direction,  at  the  report  of  my  gun.  •  His 
shot  was  unsuccessful  and  the  cunning  little  gray  whipped 
around  behind  a  tree  before  the  second  barrel  could  be  used. 
I  picked  up  my  last  kill,  and,  just  as  I  was  putting  it  in  my 
pocket,  J.  F.  raised  his  gun  quickly  and  fired — this  time  suc- 
cessfully. 

We  passed  through  this  strip  of  wood  without  seeing  more 
game.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  a  long  narrow  woodland  slough 

[117] 


A  Day  in  Ellington  Woods. 


stretched  away  to  the  east  for  eighty  rods,  bordered  on  either 
side  by  thick  underbrush.  A  cute  old  grouse,  that  had  de- 
feated all  my  efforts  for  his  capture  during  the  entire  season, 
made  his  home  on  the  margin  of  the  slough.  It  was  always 
about  the  middle,  on  either  one  side  or  the  other,  that  I  had 
flushed  him.  On  the  approach  of  man  or  dog,  he  would  dash 
into  the  thick  undergrowth  and,  sailing  just  above  the  top  of 
the  tall  grass,  drop  into  the  thick  brush  on  the  other  edge.  On 
my  first  introduction  to  him  he  had  played  this  little  game  on 
me  twice  before  I  realized  that  it  was  impossible  to  capture 
him  single-handed.  I  had  a  scheme  for  his  capture  that  I 
meant  to  put  into  execution,  and,  with  this  end  in  view,  I  told 
J.  F.  to  follow  along  the  south  side  of  the  slough  and  I  would 
take  the  north  side.  In  this  way,  if  he  should  fly  across  from 
either  side,  the  one  on  the  opposite  side  could  get  a  chance  at 
him.  I  had  hardly  reached  the  middle  of  the  slough  when  I 
heard  the  old  pheasant  whirr  up  on  the  south  side  and  burst 
through  the  underbrush  with  a  roar.  I  knew  by  the  sound 
about  where  he  would  strike,  and,  stepping  quickly  behind  a 
tree,  waited  for  him.  A  streak  of  brown  burst  through  the 
brush,  flashing  across  the  golden  bar  of  sunshine.  My  gun 
flew  to  my  shoulder  and  I  pulled  the  trigger,  though  with  small 
hope  of  getting  him,  for  my  aim  had  been  in  a  vague  manner 
at  a  momentary  flash  of  brown.  I  was  shooting  black  powder; 
but  when  the  smoke  drifted  away,  I  saw  the  cunning  old  cock 
throwing  up  the  leaves  in  his  death  struggle,  and  felt  well  re- 
paid for  the  day's  outing.  Fifty  birds  killed  in  the  ordinary 
way  would  not  have  given  me  as  much  pleasure  as  this  one. 
Joining  J.  F.  at  the  end  of  the  slough,  we  walked  around  over 
the  ridge  toward  the  team,  and,  as  we  neared  the  carriage, 
could  hear  the  merry  laugh  of  the  ladies  and  were  glad  to 
know  that,  like  ourselves,  they  were  enjoying  the  outing.  And 
so  we  hitched  up  and  drove  leisurely  home,  refreshed  and  bet- 
ter prepared  for  the  duties  of  the  morrow. 

—Sports  Afield. 

[118] 


Impressions  by  the  Way. 

The  writer  was  born  among  the  timber-clad  hills  of  New 
England,  but  emigrated  to  the  prairies  of  the  west  when  a  boy. 
I  had  read  of  the  changes  taking  place  in  the  east,  but  every- 
body sees  things  from  a  different  standpoint,  and  personal  ob- 
servation is  the  only  way  that  anyone  can  learn  the  existing 
conditions  in  any  section  of  the  country.  Recently  I  made  a 
visit  to  my  native  state.  While  on  my  journey,  as  I  was  whirled 
along  through  the  denuded  hills,  I  was  reminded  of  these  lines: 

"No  more  I  see  in  this  loved  spot 

The  groves  I  loved  of  yore, 
The  woodman's  axe  has  cut  the  trees 

That  I  would  fain  restore. 
The  little  brook  where  on  summer  days, 

I  wandered  gay  and  free, 
Is  but  a  dry  and  pebbly  path, 

O'ershadowed  by  no  tree." 

To  one  who  has  lived  in  a  prairie  country,  where  groves 
of  forest  trees  are  planted  and  every  effort  made  to  encourage 
their  growth,  the  ruthless  destruction  of  the  grand  old  forests 
makes  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind. 

The  people  who  originally  cleared  off  the  timber  from 
these  hills  intended  to  utilize  them  as  pasture  and  farm  lands, 
but  their  barrenness,  and  the  introduction  of  the  silo,  has 
wrought  their  abandonment,  and  today  they  are  a  mass  of 
blackberries  and  brush. 

I  noticed,  in  some  places,  where  interest  had  been  taken 
in  the  matter,  some  fine  groves  of  second-growth  timber,  but 
this  movement  is  not  general  and  there  is  not  the  interest  taken 
in  it  there  should  be. 

Serious  results  have  followed  this  destruction  of  the  for- 
ests of  the  eastern  states.  The  streams  and  lakes  are  gradually 
drying  up.  Many  streams  that  used  to  carry  a  large  volume 
of  pure,  living  water  all  the  year,  dwindle  down  to  mere  rivu- 
lets in  the  summer. 

[119] 


Impressions  by  the  \Yuv. 


One  lake  on  which  I  used  to  sail  and  fish  has  completely 
disappeared.  This  lake  was  over  two  miles  long,  and  one  and 
a  half  miles  across.  Nothing  remains  to  make  the  location  of 
this  once  pretty  sheet  of  water  but  a  few  patches  of  marsh. 
Many  fine  flour  mills  that  used  to  hum  with  busy  life  are  now 
silent  and  rotting  down  beside  dried-up  streams. 

The  snows  that  used  to  go  off  slowly  and  soak  into  the 
ground  when  protected  by  the  forests,  go  off  now  with  a  rush, 
washing  away  the  hillsides  and  doing  much  other  damage. 

The  trip  through  the  east  did  not  strike  me  so  forcibly 
until  last  November,  when  I  made  a  trip  across  southern  Ne- 
braska, northern  Kansas,  and  noted  the  changes  that  had  been 
wrought  there  since  my  last  visit. 

Twenty-five  years  had  elapsed  since  I  had  visited  this 
country.  Then,  after  leaving  the  settlements  along  the  Mis- 
souri and  its  tributaries  in  the  eastern  portion  of  these  states, 
our  train  glided  out  onto  a  great  ocean  of  green.  Nothing  but 
rolling  prairie,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach ;  the  crest-lines  of 
these  motionless  waves  of  green  intersecting  each  other  at 
every  conceivable  angle. 

What  little  timber  there  was  was  restricted  to  the  narrow 
fringes  along  the  streams,  the  courses  of  which  could  thus  be 
defined  until  lost  in  the  distance. 

Scarcely  a  sign  of  civilization  could  be  seen — only  prairie, 
bare  prairie.  Most  of  the  pioneers  had  settled  in  the  timber 
along  the  banks  of  the  streams,  as  there  was  not  a  bush  nor  a 
tree  to  be  found  anywhere  else. 

There  were  a  few  straggling  settlers  scattered  over  the 
prairie,  but  they  lived  in  sod  houses  and  dugouts,  which,  at 
the  time  of  year,  were  indistinguishable  from  the  mass  of  green 
surrounding  them.  The  small  towns  along  the  railroads  were 
merely  little  clusters  of  houses,  standing  out  on  the  prairie, 
unsheltered  and  unprotected  by  tree  or  shrub.  These  hardy 
pioneers  felt  the  need  of  timber  and,  one  by  one,  they  made  an 
effort  to  secure  groves. 

[120] 


Impressions  by  the  Way. 


The  experiment  proved  a  success  and  last  fall,  when  riding 
across  these  states  over  the  same  routes,  I  could  hardly  realize 
that  it  was  the  same  country.  Nearly  every  farm  now  has  its 
large  grove  and  orchard ;  the  little  prairie  towns  have  grown 
into  fine  villages  and  cities,  with  broad,  shady  streets  and  beau- 
tifully shaded  lawns  and  parks. 

The  stranger  flying  across  the  country  now  on  a  fast  train 
and  seeing  the  numerous  groves  and  the  town  buried  in  a 
bower  of  green  would  almost  think  it  was  once  a  timber  coun- 
try and  find  himself  looking  for  the  stump  fences. 

Another  pleasing  feature  that  has  been  added  to  the  land- 
scape is  the  many  little  lakes  that  have  been  formed  by  the 
damming-up  of  the  draws. 

I  was  eating  supper  in  a  hotel  in  the  little  town  of  Smith 
Center,  Kas.,  last  fall,  and  the  waiter  asked  me  if  I  would  have 
fish.  I  replied :  "No,  I  don't  like  fresh  fish  too  far  away  from 
the  water."  He  replied:  "These  fish  are  all  right;  we  caught 
them  last  night." 

I  ate  them  and  found  them  fresh  and  nice.  Upon  inquiry 
I  found  there  was  a  fine  little  lake  two  miles  east  of  town 
(Rock  Island  Lake)  over  a  mile  long  and  twenty  feet  deep  in 
places.  On  my  former  visit  to  that  country  I  had  shot  quail 
over  the  same  ground. 

At  Erickson,  Neb.,  is  a  "made  lake"  that  affords  some  of 
the  best  bass  fishing  to  be  found  anywhere.  These  lakes  are 
numerous  all  over  the  west  and  their  numbers  are  being  added 
to  every  year. 

The  timbered  countries  should  do  everything  possible  to 
prevent  the  wastefulness  of  the  large  tracts  of  virgin  forest  now 
standing  and  put  forth  every  possible  effort  to  re-forest  the 
bare  hills  where  it  has  been  destroyed.  Timber  values  are  in- 
creasing every  year,  and  the  available  supply  decreasing. 

As  towns  and  cities  build  up  our  lakes  and  streams  are 
every  year  becoming  more  a  necessity  for  water  power,  irriga- 
tion and  domestic  water  supply. 

[1211 


Impressions  by  the  Way. 


Forest,  lake  and  stream  are  inseparable ;  the  preservation 
of  one  means  the  perpetuation  of  the  other.  In  the  middle 
west  where  originally  the  timber  supply  was  short,  people 
know  its  importance  as  a  homemaker  and  are  making  every 
effort  to  encourage  the  planting,  protecting  and  preservation  of 
forest  trees. 

In  Nebraska  over  250,000  acres  have  been  planted  with 
forest  trees  and  according  to  the  last  reports  the  state  now  has 
1,500,000  acres  covered  with  forest. 

If  this  state  of  affairs  continues  until  the  end  of  the  century 
the  section  of  country  once  laid  on  the  map  as  the  "Great 
American  Desert"  is  destined  to  become  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  beautiful  agricultural  regions  in  the  world. 

— Twentieth  Century  Farmer. 


[122] 


Oak  Point. 

A  Day  at  LakeTetonka. 

I  think  I  hear  the  reader  say:  "Where  is  Lake  Tetonka?" 
Well,  my  dear  disciple  of  Izaak,  if  you  have  not  made  the 
acquaintance  of  this  beautiful  little  gem  of  the  northwest,  you 
have  a  very  pleasant  experience  to  look  forward  to. 

If  you  will  take  a  large  map  of  Minnesota  and  look  up  the 
county  of  Le  Suer,  you  will  find  the  little  city  of  Waterville, 
located  in  the  southeast  corner  of  the  county,  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Sakata  and  Tetonka. 

My  friend  Mr.  Barnes  and  I  left  Hastings,  Neb.,  on  the 
Burlington  &  Missouri  limited  Tuesday  morning,  September  4, 
at  2:30  o'clock,  arriving  at  Waterville  at  4:40  p.  m.  We  had 
corresponded  with  C.  L.  Van  Fleet  of  Maple  Point,  and 
found  him  at  the  depot  with  carriage  awaiting  us.  After  a 
lovely  drive  of  three  miles  along  the  north  shore  of  Tetonka 
we  entered  a  fine  grove  of  old  hard  maples,  and  turning  to  the 

H231 


A  Day  at  Lake  Tetonka. 


left  drove  out  onto  a  large  headland  and  stopped  at  the  ^loor 
of  the  Maple  Point  Hotel. 

Here  we  found  a  large,  home-like,  main  building  sur- 
rounded by  several  comfortable  cottages,  boat  house,  and  every 
requisite  for  the  care  and  comfort  of  the  angler. 

From  the  village  to  this  point  is  a  pleasant  drive,  and  the 
villagers  and  visitors  drive  it  often  to  enjoy  the  cooling  lake 
breeze  and  to  picnic  beneath  the  grand  old  trees. 

But  pardon  me.  Here  I  am  ranting  about  scenery,  when  I 
started  to  tell  about  fishing.  But  a  man  is  excusable  under  the 
circumstances.  Pick  a  person  up  on  a  hot,  dusty  day  in  west- 
ern Nebraska,  whirl  him  over  the  steel  rails  a  few  hours  and 
set  him  down  under  these  old  trees  on  the  shores  of  a  beautiful 
lake,  with  the  fish  breaking  water  in  all  directions,  and  if  he 
does  not  get  a  little  off  at  first  he  had  better  stay  at  home.  The 
change  was  so  delightful  that  Friend  Barnes  and  I  just  loafed 
until  the  call  for  supper. 

Early  the  following  morning  we  started  in  two  snug  little 
rowboats  up  the  lake,  and  after  a  row  of  a  mile  dropped  anchor 
at  the  mouth  of  Canon  River.  A  delightful  breeze  was  blow- 
ing across  the  lake,  making  it  comfortably  cool,  and  rippling 
the  water  just  enough  to  make  good  fishing.  We  enjoyed  the 
best  of  sport  for  two  hours,  when  our  minnows  gave  out.  "We 
had  some  worms  and  tried  them,  but-  bullheads  and  sunfish 
were  the  only  kinds  that  would  do  business  with  us  on  thai 
bait,  so  we  pulled  up  anchor  and  went  in  to  replenish  the  inner 
man  and  our  bait  pails.  And  right  here  is  where  we  encountered 
our  greatest  difficulty.  Frogs  for  bait  casting  could  not  be 
found,  and  the  only  minnows  we  could  get  were  young  sunfish 
or  croppies.  With  good  chubs  or  shiners  I  believe  we  could 
have  caught  all  the  fish  we  wanted  before  noon.  We  had  more 
trouble  to  get  bait  than  fish ;  in  fact,  the  grown-up  fish  behaved 
toward  us  with  the  courtesy  due  two  tenderfeet  from  Xebraska. 

Mr.  Van  Fleet  and  one  of  his  men  seined  for  over  an  hour 
after  dinner  to  get  a  few  minnows  for  our  afternoon  fishing. 

[124] 


A  Day  at  Lake  Tetonka. 


About  2  p.  m.  we  loaded  our  boats  and  pulled  away  for  the  old 
fishing  ground.  The  wind  had  died  away  and  hardly  a  ripple 
disturbed  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  lake.  This  calmness 
made  it  much  warmer  and  more  uncertain  for  our  sport,  but  as 
we  were  to  leave  for  home  on  the  night  train  we  could  not  af- 
ford to  wait  for  wind  and  weather.  During  the  first  hour  after 
anchoring  we  hardly  got  a  bite,  but  about  3  :30  a  nice  breeze 
came  creeping  over  the  lake,  and  we  had  royal  sport  until 
nearly  sundown. 

I  will  tell  of  one  very  strange  thing  I  experienced  here, 
that  I  never  noticed  anywhere  before  to  such  a  marked  degree. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Fleet  fished  in  a  boat  anchored  only  about 
twenty-five  feet  from  ours.  Their  catch  consisted  mostly  of 
pickerel,  croppies  and  perch,  while  we  caught  as  fine  a  string  of 
pike  as  I  ever  saw  caught  in  one  afternoon. 

About  6  o'clock  Mrs.  Van  Fleet  suggested  that  we  take 
in  the  anchors  and  pull  for  the  cottages  as  we  might  lose  out 
on  supper  if  we  stayed  out  longer. 

The  other  boat  was  some  distance  ahead  and  as  they 
struck  the  deep  water,  above  "Oak  Point,"  Mrs.  Van  Fleet  tied 
on  a  large  "Skinner  spoon"  and  as  she  cast  it  out  back  of  the 
boat  she  called  back  to  us,  "You  have  been  catching  all  the  good 
fish  this  afternoon,  but  I  am  going  to  hook  one  now  that  will  be 
some  fish." 

\Yhile  it  was  said  in  good-natured  banter,  the  words  were 
hardly  spoken,  when  her  little  steel  rod  was  nearly  torn  from 
her  hands  and  bent  until  the  tip  struck  the  water.  She  was 
an  expert  with  the  rod,  and,  though  taken  by  surprise,  she 
quickly  recovered  herself  and  put  him  on  the  spring  of  the 
steel. 

I  called  to  her,  "You  have  got  a  big  one  and  if  he  ever 
reaches  the  weeds  he  is  as  good  as  free." 

She  put  up  a  good  fight,  but  unfortunately  her  line 
was  old  and  would  not  stand  the  strain  caused  by  a  slight 
tangle  on  her  reel. 

[125] 


A  Dav  at  Lake  Tetonka. 


He  would  come  up,  then  shoot  down,  then  tug  away  on 
the  line  in  a  vain  effort  to  reach  the  rush  beds.  In  one  of  these 
spurts  he  evidently  got  a  turn  around  a  bunch  of  rushes  and 
broke  the  line.  We  were  all  genuinely  sorry  for  Mrs.  Van 
Fleet  when  she  reeled  in  the  broken  line,  minus  hook  and  fish. 

We  reached  the  landing  just  as  the  bell  rang  for  supper, 
hungry  for  the  meal,  and  well  satisfied  with  our  outing  and  our 
catch,  with  the  exception  of  "the  big  fish  that  got  away." 

— Outdoor  Life. 


1261 


A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake. 


Several  years  ago,  my  wife  and 
I,  with  a  large  party  of  Iowa  den- 
tists and  their  wives  enjoyed  a 
week's  vacation  at  Hotel  Orleans 
at  Spirit  Lake,  Iowa. 

Sailing,  rowing,  bathing  and 
fishing  were  the  sports  enjoyed 
and  everybody  had  a  good  time. 

When  the  party  broke  up  and 
departed  for  their  homes,  Mrs.  S. 
and  I  decided  to  stay  a  few  days 
longer  and  put  in  a  day  at  Lake 
Okoboji.  It  was  a  beautiful  morn- 
ing when  we  drove  away  from  the 
Orleans.  Passing  through  the  lit- 
tle town  of  Spirit  Lake,  the  road 
wound  through  the  timber  along 
the  shore  of  East  Lake  Okoboji. 
We  reached  "Arnolds"  at  noon 
and  enjoyed  a  social  dinner  with 
some  old  friends  from  Waterloo 
and  Des  Moines.  After  dinner  we 

strolled  up  the  lake  shore  as  far  as  "Pillsbury  Point,"  then 
back  through  the  woods  to  the  granite  shaft  erected  by  the 
state  of  Iowa  in  memory  of  those  who  were  slain  in  the  Spirit 
Lake  massacre. 

Just  south  of  the  granite  shaft  stands  the  memorial  pile, 
built  of  stones  gathered  along  the  lake  shores,  and  erected 
by  Mrs.  Abbie  Gardner  Sharp  to  mark  the  last  resting  place 
of  her  parents  and  other  members  of  the  household.  Just  north 
of  the  monument,  nestling  under  the  big  trees,  stands  the 
original  Gardner  cabin,  in  practically  the  same  condition  as 
when  entered  by  savages  on  that  spring  morning. 

[127] 


Thatcher  Monument. 


A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake. 


At  the  time  of  our  visit  it  was  occupied  by  the  only  white 
person  who  escaped  death  on  that  memorable  day  so  long  ago, 
\\  hen  the  cruel  Sioux  made  their  last  fight  on  Iowa  soil. 

\Ye  were  welcomed  at  the  door  by  a  sweet-faced,  gray- 
haired  little  lady,  whose  every  feature  tells  the  tale  of  sorrow 
and  suffering  through  which  she  has  passed.  While  looking 
at  her  fine  collection  of  Indian  relics  I  asked  questions  bearing 
on  the  massacre  and  gradually  drew  out  her  story.  Never  will 
I  forget  the  impression  made  upon  me  as  that  quiet,  sacKfaced 
lady  described  the  scenes  of  that  March  day  that  deprived  her 
of  home  and  parents  and  left  her  captive  among  blood-thirsty 
savages. 

The  story  could  not  impress  the  reader  as  it  did  the  writer, 
for  as  she  described  the  horrors  of  that  afternoon  she  pointed 
out  the  place  where  each  scene  in  the  tragedy  was  enacted. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  give  the  entire  story,  but  an  outline 
of  it  from  memory  in  her  own  words  as  well  as  I  can. 

"My  father  moved  with  his  family  to  northwest  Iowa,  and 
settled  on  the  shores  of  this  beautiful  lake  in  July,.  1856,  and 
erected  the  house  in  which  he  was  afterwards  murdered. 

"During  the  summer  several  other  families  came  in  and 
settled  along  the  lake  and  by  fall  there  were  probably  forty 
persons  settled  in  the  beautiful  groves  along  the  nearby  lakes. 

''In  the  fall  Inkapaduta's  band  of  Sioux  appeared  upon  the 
quiet  scene.  This  chief,  as  I  remember  him,  was  probably  60 
years  of  age,  about  six  feet  in  height  and  strongly  built.  He 
was  deeply  pitted  by  smallpox,  giving  him  a  revolting  appear- 
ance and  distinguishing  him  from  the  other  members  of  the 
band.  His  natural  enmity  to  the  white  man,  revengeful  dis- 
position and  matchless  success  on  the  war  path  won  for  him 
the  place  of  leader  among  his  people. 

"The  causes  leading  up  to  the  massacre  were  said  to  have 
been  these :  One  day  while  the  Indians  were  in  pursuit  of  elk 
they  had  some  difficulty  with  settlers  in  the  lower  portion  of 
the  Little  Sioux  valley.  The  Indians  contended  that  the 

[128] 


A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake. 


•'•» 


Thatcher  Cabin. 


whites  intercepted  the  chase.    There  was  another  story  to  the 

effect  that  a  dog  owned  by  a  white 
man  had  bitten  an  Indian,  that 
the  Indian  killed  the  dog,  and  that 
the  white  man  gave  the  Indian  a 
beating.  It  was  also  said  that  the 
settlers  whipped  a  number  of 
squaws  who  were  carrying  roast- 
ing ears  from  the  field.  At  any 
rate  the  hearts  of  the  Indians  be- 
came filled  with  revenge,  and 
starting  north  the  redskins  commenced  committing  depre- 
dations along  the  route.  Having  killed  a  number  of  settlers, 
these  Indians  reached  the  vicinity  of  Okoboji  the  evening 
of  March  7th.  The  settlers  had  no  knowledge  of  what  had 
transpired  down  the  valley  ;  nor  through  the  long  hours  of 
that  night,  wrapped  in  peaceful  repose,  did  they  dream  of  the 
foul  conspiracy  that  was  brewing. 

"My  father  was  intending  to  start  for  Fort  Dodge  on  the 
following  morning  to  secure  a  load  of  supplies.  As  we  were 
about  to  sit  down  to  breakfast  an  Indian  entered  the  house, 
wearing  the  guise  of  friendship  and  claiming  the  sacred  pre- 
rogative of  hospitality.  A  place  was  prepared  for  him  at  the 
table  and  he  partook  of  the  frugal  meal  with  the  family.  This 
Indian  was  soon  followed  by  others  until  Inkapaduta  and  four- 
teen warriors,  with  their  squaws  and  papooses  had  entered  the 
house.  After  eating,  the  men  of  the  tribe  became  sullen,  inso- 
lent and  demanded  ammunition  and  other  things.  When  father 
was  giving  one  of  the  Indians  a  few  gun  caps,  he  snatched  the 
whole  box  from  his  hand.  At  the  same  time  another  attempted 
to  take  a  powder  horn  from  the  wall,  but  was  prevented  by 
Harvey  Luce.  The  Indian  drew  his  gun  and  would  have  shot 
Mr.  Luce  had  the  latter  not  seized  the  weapon  and  turned  it 
in  another  direction.  About  this  time  Dr.  Harriott  and  Mr. 
Snyder,  other  settlers,  called,  knowing  of  father's  intention  of 

[129] 


A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake. 


going  to  Fort  Dodge  and  wishing  to  send  some  letters  to  be 
mailed.  Father  told  them  that  he  could  not  go  and  leave  his 
family,  as  he  feared  the  Indians  were  going  on  the  warpath. 
He  also  suggested  that  the  other  settlers  along  the  lake  be  noti- 
fied of  the  danger  and  immediate  arrangement  made  for  the 
defense  of  the  little  colony.  Our  house  being  the  largest  and 
strongest,  his  idea  was  to  have  the  settlers  gather  in  it.  Dr. 
Harriott  and  Mr.  Snyder  thought  that  this  was  only  a  little 
pet  of  the  Indians  and  that  it  would  soon  pass  over,  so  they 
did  some  trading  with  them  and  returned  to  their  cabins. 

"The  Indians  prowled  around  until  noon  and  then  went 
over  to  the  house  of  James  Mattox,  a  short  distance  up  the 
lake,  and  stole  his  cattle,  which  they  drove  away  and  killed. 
In  the  meantime  a  consultation  had  been  held  at  our  house  and 
it  was  decided  that  Messrs.  Luce  and  Clark  should  go  out  and 
notify  the  settlers  of  the  impending  danger.  They  started 
about  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  never  to  return.  About  3 
o'clock  the  report  of  guns  was  heard  coming  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Mattox  house  and  then  we  were  no  longer  in  doubt 
of  the  awful  danger  that  was  hanging  over  us. 

"Just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  father,  whose  anxiety  would 
no  longer  permit  him  to  remain  within  doors,  went  out  to 
reconnoiter.  He,  however,  hastily  returned  saying: 

"  'Nine  Indians  are  coming,  now  only  a  short  distance 
from  the  house,  and  we  are  all  doomed  to  die.'  His  first 
thought  was  to  barricade  the  door  and  fight  till  the  last,  saying : 

"  'While  they  are  killing  us,  I  will  kill  a  few  of  them  with 
the  two  loaded  guns  still  left  in  the  house.' 

"Mother  protested,  having  not  lost  faith  in  the  Indians 
who  took  breakfast  with  us.  They  entered  the  house  and  de- 
manded flour,  and  as  father  turned  to  get  them  what  remained 
of  our  scanty  store,  they  shot  him  through  the  heart,  killing 
him  instantly.  When  first  the  Indian  drew  his  gun  on  father, 
mother  or  Mrs.  Luce  seized  it  by  the  barrel  and  pushed  the 
muzzle  down,  but  the  other  Indians  turned  on  them,  caught 
their  hands  and  beat  them  down  with  their  guns,  then  dragged 

[130] 


A  Trip  to  Spirit  Lake. 


them  out  doors  and  killed  them.  Then  they  took  what  they 
wanted  from  the  house  and  destroyed  everything  else. 

"When  the  Indians  entered  the  house  and  during  these 
awful  scenes,  I,  then  a  child  of  13  years  of  age,  was  seated  in 
a  chair,  holding  my  sister's  baby  in  my  arms,  with  her  little 
boy  standing  on  one  side  of  my  chair  and  my  youngest  brother 
on  the  other,  clinging  to  me  and  crying  in  terror  for  the  pro- 
tection it  was  impossible  for  me  to  give.  Heedless  of  their 
cries  the  brutes  tore  them  from  me,  dragged  them  out  in  front 
of  the  door,  and  killed  them  before  my  eyes. 

"All  of  this  time  I  was  so  horrified  that  I  was  paralyzed 
with  fear ;  no  tears  moistened  my  eyes  nor  a  cry  escaped  my 
lips,  but  now,  left  alone  I  begged  them  to  kill  me.  It  seems  I 
could  not  wait  for  them  to  put  me  out  of  my  misery.  One  of 
them  approached  and  seizing  me  roughly  by  the  arm  said  some- 
thing I  could  not  understand,  but  I  knew  from  their  actions 
that  I  was  to  be  made  a  captive. 

"This  was  no  relief,  and  all  the  tortures  and  indignities 
inflicted  on  Indian  captives  arose  in  horrid  vividness  as  my 
benumbed  brain  began  to  act. 

"After  the  bloody  scalping  knife  had  done  its  work,  I  was 
dragged  from  the  never-to-be-forgotten  scene.  Behind  me  I  left 
my  heroic  father  and  dear  mother  murdered  in  a  cowardly  man- 
ner in  the  very  act  of  hospitality.  In  the  yard  lay  the  three  chil- 
dren and  my  dear  sister  and  brother  dying,  and  amid  these 
scenes  of  unutterable  horror  I  took  my  farewell  look  upon 
them  all. 

"Filled  with  loathing  for  these  wretches  whose  hands  were 
wet  with  the  blood  of  my  dear  ones,  we  plunged  into  the  gloom 
of  the  forest  and  the  coming  night.  However,  neither  the  gloom 
of  the  forest,  nor  the  blackness  of  night,  nor  both  combined 
could  begin  to  symbolize  the  darkness  of  my  terror-stricken 
heart." 

Mrs.  Sharp  was  taken  to  South  Dakota,  where  she  was 
kept  prisoner  for  several  months,  finally  being  rescued  through 
the  efforts  of  friendly  Indians,  assisted  by  Colonel  Flandreau 
of  St.  Paul.  t  131  } 


Little  Partner. 

It  is  a  hot,  dreamy  summer  afternoon,  with  the  mercury 
flirting  around  the  100  mark — too  warm  for  work  or  any  kind 
of  exertion ;  so  I  lean  back  lazily  in  the  office  chair,  put  my  feet 
on  top  of  the  desk,  and  allow  my  thoughts  to  wander  retro- 
spectively over  the  past.  Whenever  I  do  this  I  always  wind  up 
with  some  pleasant  day's  shooting  or  fishing.  The  little  thing 
that  leads  me  away  from  the  present  into  the  past,  this  time, 
is  a  plain,  old,  smoke-stained  briar  pipe  that  has  kept  me  com- 
pany on  many  a  camping  trip  and  has  furnished  me  con- 
solation when  the  fish  would  not  bite  or  the  shot  and  birds 
failed  to  connect.  I  found  this  old  reminder  in  my  barnyard 
coat  pocket,  where  it  has  lain  for  many  years — untouched,  un- 
used, forgotten.  Holding  the  old  relic  in  my  hand,  I  close  my 
eyes,  and  memory  carries  me  back  to  many  happy  experiences 
in  field  and  wood,  on  lake  and  stream,  in  which  the  dear  little 
wife  and  I  participated  in  days  gone  by. 

Little  Partner,  like  most  ladies  of  those  days,  knew  noth- 
ing about  the  use  of  rod  and  gun  when  we  were  married ;  but, 
as  soon  as  the  holidays  were  over,  we  set  about  planning  our 
first  vacation,  and  finally  decided  to  take  advantage  of  the  low 
excursion  rates  to  Clear  Lake,  Iowa,  and  spend  a  few  weeks 
there.  This  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  and  the  fishing 
and  shooting  we  enjoyed  on  that  trip  were  something  that  the 
young  sportsmen  of  today  will  never  see.  It  was  our  first 
outing,  and  I  took  pains  to  see  that  Little  Partner  should  re- 
alize all  she  had  expected,  and  not  go  home  disgusted  with  her 
first  experience.  We  fished,  hunted,  and  sailed  together  in  that 
paradise  of  game  and  fish  for  four  weeks,  and  then  returned  to 
our  home  happier  and  better  able  to  cope  with  our  winter's 
work. 

And  thus  it  is  that  the  sight  of  this  old  pipe  brings  before 
me  many  of  these  trips.  But  there  are  two  that  are  more 
•directly  associated  with  the  old  briar,  and  stand  out  more 

[133] 


Little  Partner. 


vividly  than  all  others.  The  first  of  these  is  a  camp  scene  on 
Waterford  Lake  in  the  state  of  Pennsylvania.  There  are  two 
white  tents  standing  on  a  little  rise  of  ground  under  the  big 
shady  beeches.  In  front  of  the  larger  tent  there  is  burning  a 
bright,  cheery  camp  fire,  and,  gathered  around  it,  I  see  the 
happy  faces  of  friends.  This  was  the  last  long  trip  that  Little 
Partner  ever  took  with  me,  and  our  last  outing  under  canvas. 
The  next  is  a  bright  autumn  afternoon  in  northern  Iowa — that 
long-to-be-remembered  day  when  we  took  our  last  hunt  to- 
gether in  the  Lime  Creek  woods.  This  was  the  time  of  year, 
above  all  others,  when  we  enjoyed  roaming  the  woods  with 
rifle  or  camera — picking  up  an  occasional  squirrel  or  catching  a 
pretty  bit  of  landscape  now  and  then  on  the  gelatine-coated 
plate. 

We  never  had  any  family  jars  over  this  matter  of  taking  a 
day  off,  for  Little  Partner  entered  into  the  pastime  of  Diana 
with  as  much  zeal  as  I  did.  In  truth,  she  was  a  far  better  shot 
with  the  rifle  than  I  ever  expect  to  be.  So,  when  I  pushed 
back  from  the  dinner  table  on  this  bright  September  day  and 
proposed  a  tramp  up  creek,  the  proposition  met  with  a  hearty 
response  from  the  other  side  of  the  table.  I  hurried  through 
with  the  work  of  the  office,  and  was  soon  back  home.  Little 
Partner  was  dressed  for  the  trip,  had  everything  ready,  and  was 
waiting  for  me  at  the  door.  I  got  into  my  shooting  togs  in  a 
jiffy — and  we  were  off.  A  short  down-hill  walk  of  ten  min- 
utes, and  we  were  on  the  creek  bank.  I  was  carrying  the 
camera,  and,  just  as  I  stepped  onto  the  foot  bridge,  I  cnanced 
to  glance  up-creek  and  stood  enraptured  with  the  beauty  of 
the  scene.  The  winding  stream,  with  its  willow-fringed  shores, 
the  distant  hills  and  beautiful  clouds  overhead,  made  up  such 
a  pretty  picture  for  the  sensitive  plate  that  I  could  not  pass  it 
by.  Folding  up  the  camera,  we  crossed  the  creek  and  were 
soon  on  our  old  hunting  ground.  The  magic  touch  of  Jack  Frost 
had  wrought  wonders  on  the  garb  of  hill  and  dale  since  our 
last  visit.  Then  all  was  summer  green,  while  now  the  autumn 

[134] 


Little  Partner. 


yellows,  browns,  reds  and  purples  held  sway.  This  and  the 
falling  leaves  that  came  whirling  down  at  our  feet  told  the 
story  of  the  summer's  close  and  that  Mother  Earth  had  com- 
pleted her  work  for  another  year.  We  were  happy,  and  little 
did  we  think  it  would  be  our  last  tramp  together  in  those  dear 
old  woods. 

For  several  years  I  had  been  trying  to  get  a  snap-shot  at 
Little  Partner  when  she  was  in  the  act  of  shooting  or  intent  on 
getting  a  shot  at  a  sly  old  grey,  while  he  was  trying  to  keep  a 
tree  between-himself  and  her  rifle.  So,  when  we  got  among  the 
large  trees,  I  handed  her  the  rifle,  while  we  both  kept  a  sharp 
lookout  for  squirrels.  I  had  the  camera  set,  and  was  on  the 
alert  for  my  shot.  The  frosts  and  stormy  weather  had  stripped 
the  larger  trees  of  their  leaves,  and  kept  the  squirrels  closely 
indoors  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  and,  as  they  were  quite  sure  to 
be  out  in  force,  laying  up  their  winter  store,  we  expected  to 
catch  some  of  them  on  the  ground  among  the  small  oaks.  But 
in  this  we  were  disappointed.  Most  likely  they  had  been  down 
earlier  in  the  day  and  were  now  in  the  tree  tops  or  basking  in 
their  nests.  We  passed  through  the  grove,  to  the  corn  field  on 
the  north  side,  without  seeing  the  saucy  flirt  of  a  single  gray 
plume.  South  and  west  of  us  extended  a  large  tract  of  the 
finest  kind  of  "squirrel  timber" — oaks  and  walnuts,  and  many 
of  them  hollow.  Edging  this  wood  was  the  creek  we  had 
crossed ;  the  land  sloping  to  the  stream,  and  cut  into  ridges 
by  a  number  of  small  ravines  coming  down  from  the  hills.  This 
made  the  best  of  hunting  when  the  leaves  had  fallen  from  the 
large  trees  on  the  ridges,  as  in  the  ravines  there  was  cover  to 
conceal  us,  and  we  could  see  without  being  seen. 

We  had  proceeded  but  a  short  distance  up  a  nearby 
ravine,  when  we  heard  a  squirrel  barking  in  a  suppressed  way 
a  short  distance  ahead  of  us.  I  pointed  to  a  big  red-oak  and 
said,  "Our  squirrel  is  in  that  tree."  We  approached  the  tree 
carefully,  but  Little  Partner  could  not  get  sight  of  his  squirrel- 
ship,  so  she  handed  me  the  gun.  Taking  it,  I  moved  a  little, 
to  get  a  better  opening.  I  could  only  see  the  top  of  his  head 

[1351 


Little  Partner. 


and  ears,  but  covering  what  I  could  see,  I  pulled  the  trigger, 
and,  at  the  crack  of  the  gun,  he  let  go  his  hold  and  dropped  to 
the  ground.  Putting  him  into  my  pocket,  I  handed  the  gun 
back,  and  we  moved  on  up  the  ravine,  and  soon  heard  the 
scratching  of  another  squirrel  as  he  ran  up  the  farther  side  of 
a  nearby  tree.  When  he  reached  the  crotch,  he  poked  his  head 
through  and  peered  down  at  us,  offering  a  beautiful  shot ;  and 
at  the  crack  of  the  rifle  he  wilted  without  a  kick — with  his  head 
stuck  fast  in  the  crotch.  Here  was  a  predicament  we  had  not 
figured  on ;  our  squirrel  had  been  killed  too  dead,  and  was 
hung  up  where  we  could  not  get  him.  It  was  a  long  way  to 
the  first  limb,  and  I  was  too  poor  a  climber  to  fancy  shinning 
up  twenty  feet  of  bare  tree  trunk.  So  I  told  Little  Partner  if 
we  got  that  squirrel  she  would  have  to  shoot  him  out.  She 
fired  four  or  five  shots,  hitting  him  every  time,  but  did  not  dis- 
lodge him  ;  then,  turning  to  me,  she  said  :  "I  am  done  shooting 
at  dead  squirrels."  So  we  left  him  and  moved  on — killing  two 
more  squirrels  in  that  ravine,  and  then  crossing  to  the  next. 

Here  there  was  an  old  dead  stub  of  a  tree — the  home  of  a 
large  family  of  grays.  As  we  approached  it,  we  heard  a  noise. 
Little  Partner  stepped  behind  a  tree  and  said,  "Will,  you  drive 
him  around,  and  I'll  watch  for  him."  This  was  my  chance  for 
a  shot ;  so  I  walked  off  about  fifteen  feet,  turned  around  and 
snapped  the  camera  on  her,  while  she  had  her  rifle  at  ready  and 
was  watching  for  the  squirrel. 

We  lounged  around  under  the  trees  for  a  while,  and  then 
strolled  leisurely  across  the  flat  towards  home — talking  over 
the  hits,  misses  and  other  events  of  the  day.  Measured  by  the 
calendar,  it  is  but  a  short  step  from  the  present  to  that  lovely 
September  evening  when  we  climbed  the  steep  bank  of  Lime 
Creek,  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  from  sight  behind  Mahony's 
Grove.  Though  but  a  short  interval,  as  measured  by  time, 
events  have  transpired  in  my  life  that  make  it  appear  an  age, 
and  when  I  sit  down  and  live  over  again  the  happy  hours  of  the 
last  day  that  Little  Partner  and  I  spent  in  the  woods  together, 
I  drift  away  from  the  present  into  the  dim  and  dreamy  past. 

[136] 


Little  Partner. 


The  noise,  heat,  and  din  of  the  city  are  lost;  I  feel  the  cool 
breezes  fan  my  cheek,  as  nature,  in  her  sombre  autumn  garb, 
casts  the  mantle  of  night  over  the  living  world.  I  hear  the 
rippling  waters  of  Lime  Creek  beneath  our  feet  as  we  cross  the 
old  foot  bridge,  and  feel  the  touch  of  Little  Partner's  hand  on 
my  shoulder  as  we  wearily  climb  the  steep  hill  near  home. 
Every  year  in  September  I  visit  the  little  village  and  hunt  over 
the  same  grounds  where  we  spent  so  many  pleasant  hours — 
happy  in  the  thought  that  she  and  I  are  again  in  sweet  com- 
munion when  on  this  sacred  ground. 

—Sports  Afield. 


1371 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole. 

Tramping  up  a  stream  in  northern  Iowa  one  day  last  sum- 
mer with  my  camera,  I  surprised  a  little  barefoot  urchin,  stand- 
ing on  a  rock  with  a  big  fish  pole  in  his  hand.  So  interested  in 
the  sport  was  he  that  he  did  not  hear  my  approach,  until  I 
pressed  the  button  of  the  camera  and  secured  a  picture  that 
carried  me  back  to  one  bright  September  morning,  many 
years  ago. 

It  was  Saturday.  I  had  risen  early ;  cut  my  wood  for  over 
Sunday;  put  a  lunch  in  my  pocket;  and,  shouldering  the  little 
single-barrel,  struck  out  for  the  river  timber  after  squirrels  and 
ducks.  I  hunted  through  the  half-mile  of  oaks  that  bordered 
the  river  without  seeing  a  sign  of  game.  Standing  on  the  bank 
of  the  old  Maquoketa,  I  deliberated  for  some  time  whether  to 
go  up  the  river  or  cross  over  and  go  to  Coffin's  Creek.  Less 
than  a  mile  above  me  was  Rohrick's  Bend,  and  at  this  point 
the  stream  was  very  wide,  with  a  low  marshy  flat  running  out 
from  the  west  shore — furnishing  a  good  feeding  and  preening 
ground  for  the  little  blue-winged  teal,  and  many  a  one  had  I 
bagged  there  on  former  hunts.  After  deliberating  some  time 
I  finally  decided  to  try  my  old  ground  again.  Reaching  the 
thick  brush  that  bordered  the  bank  at  Rohrick's  Bend,  I  crept 
carefully  along  the  edge,  peeping  through  here  and  there ;  but 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  water  was  smooth  and  undisturbed  by 
the  wake  of  a  solitary  duck ;  nor  did  the  long  strip  of  sluggish 
water  reaching  away  to  Burrington  Ford  show  a  sign  of  duck 
life.  Somewhat  disappointed,  I  turned  away  from  the  river 
and  cut  across  through  Acre's  Grove — hoping  to  pick  up  a 
stray  pigeon  or  pheasant  and  strike  the  river  higher  up.  Boy- 
like,  I  entered  the  heavy  oak  timber  with  my  thoughts  more  on 
the  duck  prospects  ahead  than  on  the  game  I  was  looking  for. 
Suddenly,  a  large  bird  sailed  down  through  the  trees  and 
alighted  in  the  old  woods  road  a  few  rods  ahead.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes,  and,  by  the  time  I  was  fully  awake 

[1391 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole. 


to  the  situation,  he  burst  away  with  a  roar  of  wings  that  dis- 
pelled my  day  dream.  No  more  pheasants  sailed  down  in  the 
road  to  be  looked  at,  and  I  followed  the  windings  of  the  old 
road  until  it  brought  me  out  on  the  bank  of  the  long  bayou. 

I  had  been  over  this  same  ground  many  times  before,  on 
fishing  and  hunting  trips;  but  had  always  followed  along  the 
bank  of  the  bayou  and  struck  the  stream  above — thus  cutting 
off  a  large  bend  in  the  river  that  swept  around  to  the  west  and 
back  again.  But  on  this  morning,  noticing  that  the  water  in 
the  bayou  was  low,  I  determined  to  cross  the  dead  water  and 
hunt  out  the  bend  beyond.  Wading  hip  deep  through  the  wa- 
ter, I  crossed  over  the  flat,  oozy  shore  on  the  other  side.  Here 
in  the  soft  mud  could  be  seen  the  clumsy,  bear-like  tracks  of  a 
pair  of  raccoons,  the  slouchy,  dragging  trail  of  a  muskrat,  and 
the  dainty  foot-prints  of  the  mink  on  his  nightly  hunt.  At 
any  other  time  these  stories  of  woods  life  would  have  interested 
me  very  much ;  but  this  morning  I  was  after  other  game,  and, 
picking  my  way  through  the  high  grass  and  ferns,  I  kept  my 
course  to  the  head  of  the  bend.  With  an  eye  to  a  possible 
pigeon,  I  carefully  scanned  the  tall  cottonwoods,  but  without 
seeing  a  feather.  Coming  out  on  the  sloping  bank,  I  saw  there 
was  only  a  thread  of  a  stream  where  I  expected  to  find  the 
river;  the  main  part  of  the  current  ran  around  the  west  side 
of  an  island  which  divided  the  stream  at  this  point.  This 
island  was  covered  with  a  dense  thicket.  Moving  along  cau- 
tiously across  the  island,  I  crept  to  a  point  that  gave  me  a  view 
of  almost  the  whole  length  of  the  bend,  when  I  beheld  a  sight 
that  nearly  took  my  breath  away. 

The  water  was  clear,  with  a  coarse  gravel  bottom,  and 
these  riffles  fairly  swarmed  with  great  big  redhorse,  darting 
here  and  there  playfully — their  big  back  fins  sticking  out  of  the 
water.  This  secluded  spot  had  not  been  disturbed  by  fisher- 
men for  years,  and  it  was  too  bad  to  disturb  them ;  but  no  emo- 
tion of  pity  softened  the  youthful  savagery  of  my  heart.  Great 
was  my  joy  at  the  discovery,  as  these  darting  beauties  meant 

[140] 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole. 


lots  of  sport  and  many  dollars  of  spending  money  for  me. 
Setting  my  gun  against  a  tree,  I  went  into  the  thicket  and  cut 
a  pole ;  then,  diving  into  my  pockets,  I  brought  out  a  fish  line 
and  a  snare.  Wading  cautiously  out  on  the  riffle,  I  dropped  the 
line  in  above  the  fish  and  worked  it  slowly  down  with  the  cur- 
rent when  near  the  school.  All  the  big  ones  darted  out  of  the 
stream,  but  I  stopped  the  snare  and  Held  it  quietly  until  they 
came  back,  then  let  it  drift  over  a  big  fellow's  gills  and  snatched 
him  out.  For  over  two  hours  I  kept  up  the  sport — getting  a 
big  string  of  the  beauties  that  made  a  load  for  me  to  carry 
home.  Many  a  day  thereafter  until  away  into  November  I 
went  alone  to  this  charmed  spot,  guided  from  afar  by  an  old 
dead  cottonwood  that  stood  on  the  island,  and,  as  long  as  I 
kept  my  secret,  these  visits  were  always  rewarded  with  a  good 
string  of  fish.  Each  time  I  caught  a  fish,  the  school  would  dis- 
appear and  I  was  never  able  to  discover  their  hiding  place. 
However,  by  the  time  my  catch  was  on  the  string  and  I  had 
waded  back,  the  school  would  be  returning  to  the  shoal ;  the 
small  ones  first,  the  large  ones  working  in  more  cautiously. 
After  an  hour  or  so  of  this  work,  the  large  ones  would  not 
return  and  I  would  have  to  quit  for  that  time;  but  the  next 
day  there  would  apparently  be  as  many  as  ever  on  the  riffle. 
All  through  that  fall  and  the  following  spring  my  strings  of 
fish  were  the  envy  of  my  schoolmates,  and  they  tried  many 
times  to  discover  where  I  caught  them,  but  did  not  succeed. 
One  day  in  September  (a  year  after  making  my  discovery) 
I  was  returning  with  one  of  my  boy  friends  from  an  unsuccess- 
ful day  on  Honey  Creek,  when  in  an  evil  hour,  under  promise 
of  secrecy,  I  disclosed  to  him  my  hidden  fishing  hole.  My  faith- 
less friend  did  not  prove  true  to  his  trust,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  a  path  was  worn  across  the  island  by  other  feet  than 
mine;  the  fish  became  shy  of  the  place  where  they  were  con- 
tinually disturbed  and  finally  disappeared  entirely  from  their 
old  retreat.  As  one  still  searches  for  something  that  is  lost 
past  all  hope,  so  it  was  with  me.  I  never  went  past  the  place 

[141] 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole. 


without  taking  a  peep  at  the  old  riffle,  but  never  to  find  more 
than  one  or  two  redhorse  or  a  few  small  stone-rollers.  I  had 
given  away  my  discovery  only  to  have  it  made  public  property, 
and  had  discovered  the  faithlessness  of  a  hitherto  faithful 
friend. 

— Sports  Afield. 


142 


The  Electric  Building. 

Memories  of  the  World's  Fair. 

This  grand  exposition  was  wondrously  beautiful  under 
all  conditions,  but  when  the  Magician  of  Night  steps  forth  and 
waves  his  wand  over  the  "Fair  City,"  then  the  illusion  is  com- 
plete. 

The  outlines  and  masses,  fine  architecture,  vistas,  plazas 
and  lagoons  are  always  grand  and  inspiring,  but  it  needs  the 
softening  shadows  of  night  and  illumination  of  thousands  of 
electric  lights  to  bring  them  out  in  all  their  glory. 

The  weary  multitude  that,  during  the  day,  wander  from 
place  to  place  without  any  object,  the  debris  from  lunch  baskets 
and  odor  from  restaurants,  seem  incompatible  with  the  beau- 
tiful palaces,  terraces,  plazas  and  lagoons.  When  evening 
comes  and  the  darkness  becomes  mysteriously  luminous,  the 
reign  of  enchantment  begins. 

[143] 


Memories  of  the  World's  Fair. 


Sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  pavillion,  one  balmy  October 
evening,  I  watched  this  transformation  take  place  and  its  mem- 
ory will  go  with  me  through  life.  Gradually  the  shadows 
ascend  the  Louisiana  monument;  until  the  last  flickering  bar 
of  sunshine  disappears  from  its  gold-banded  dome.  Slowly  the 
cascades  grow  transcendant  with  interior  flames  of  colored 
lights,  constantly  changing  in  color  and  depth,  varying  in  shade 
and  producing  the  most  beautiful  effects  imaginable  on  the 
falling  waters. 

The  cornices,  corners,  arches  and  domes  of  the  big  build- 
ings stand  out  in  red  and  golden  beads  of  fire.  Launches  and 
gondolas  are  gliding  by  noiselessly  over  the  quiet  waters  of 
the  "Grand  Basin"  and  the  song  of  a  gondolier  floats  up  on  the 
soft  south  wind  as  he  keeps  time  with  the  dip  of  his  oar.  The 
discordant  and  inarticulate  murmurs  of  the  gazing  crowd  are 
succeeded  by  silence  as  they  stand  awed  in  admiration  of  the 
enchanting  scene  unfolded  before  them. 

Deep  beyond  words,  and  far  beyond  expression,  is  the 
subtle  pathos  of  this  transitory  scene  at  such  an  hour.  As  I 
arise  from  the  pavilion  and  turn  my  steps  homeward,  a  feeling 
of  sadness  creeps  over  me  to  think  that  this  fragile  city  of 
beauty,  like  the  evening  rainbow,  must  soon  disappear.  But 
its  magnificent  memories  and  lessons  can  never  die.  The  out- 
lines and  proportions  of  these  fine  models  of  architecture  will 
survive  in  the  minds  of  the  thousands  who  have  been  charmed 
and  educated  by  their  contemplation. 

Any  attempt  to  estimate  or  measure  the  lessons  of  the 
great  Louisiana  Purchase  Exposition,  and  its  educational  bene- 
fits, would  be  impossible  at  this  time.  It  is  very  doubtful  if 
5  per  cent  of  the  visitors  to  the  fair  make  a  careful  study  and 
analysis  of  the  exhibits,  but  a  large  per  cent  study  those  ex- 
hibits in  which  they  are  most  interested  and  carry  home  a  rich 
store  of  information  that  will  be  invaluable  to  them  through 
life.  Thus,  much  of  the  information  gleaned  at  the  fair  will 
be  gradually  unfolded  in  the  future  conditions  of  private  and 
public  life. 

[144] 


Memories  of  the  World's  Fair. 


The  immensity  of  the  grounds,  buildings  and  exhibits  are 
appalling  to  the  "short-time"  visitor  and  a  great  deal  of  time 
is  lost  by  many,  strolling  through  the  crowd  in  an  unorganized 
manner.  Of  course,  if  he  has  a  "short  limit"  ticket,  a  minute 
inspection  is  impossible,  but  if  previous  arrangements  have 
been  made,  the  grounds  carefully  studied  and  a  program 
mapped  out,  much  can  be  accomplished  in  a  short  visit. 


In  the  Phillipine  Village. 

One  of  the  greatest  lessons  taught  by  the  exposition  is 
the  continual  advancement  of  the  world.  In  every  exhibit  on 
the  grounds,  and  even  on  the  Pike,  one  cannot  fail  to  observe 
the  upward  march  of  humanity.  To  me  this  picture  is  more 
vividly  depicted  in  the  transportation  building  than  anywhere 
else.  The  humblest  person  in  the  land  today  enjoys  traveling 
facilities  that  the  treasuries  of  monarchs  could  not  command  a 
century  ago. 

[145] 


Memories  of  the  World's  Fair. 


Standing  in  the  middle  of  this  great  building,  surrounded 
by  over  sixteen  acres  of  transportation  exhibits,  dating  from 
the  age  of  oxen,  donkeys,  camels,  and  canoes,  up  to  the  palatial 
trains  and  vessels  of  today,  the  contrast  is  so  great  that  one 
stands  awed  and  cannot  help  but  speculate  on  what  will  be  the 
result  of  this  onward  march  in  another  hundred  years. 

Some  very  sharp  contrasts  can  be  drawn  if  we  go  back 
no  further  than  the  "World's  Fair"  at  Chicago.  At  that  time 
there  was  not  an  automobile  on  exhibit.  At  St.  Louis  there  is 
a  first-class  automobile  service  all  over  the  city  and  on  the 
grounds.  In  one  of  the  aisles  of  the  transportation  building 
there  is  an  auto  for  family  touring,  fitted  up  as  luxuriously 
as  a  Pullman  car.  It  carries  a  forty-horsepower  engine  and  can 
make  a  speed  of  forty  miles  an  hour  on  good  roads.  The  loco- 
motive that  was  the  pride  of  the  transportation  building  at 
Chicago,  and  the  fastest  in  America  at  that  time,  is  now  pulling 
a  suburban  milk  train.  As  I  stood  admiring  the  "Big  Four" 
engine  in  the  center  of  the  building  at  St.  Louis,  I  could  not 
help  but  wonder  if  the  same  fate  would  befall  it  in  the  next 
ten  years.  Who  can  tell? 

Perhaps  in  another  decade  the  steam  engine  will  be  super- 
ceded  by  the  electric  locomotive.  Ten  years  ago  they  were 
hardly  known.  Today  the  Baltimore  &  Ohio  are  using  several 
electric  locomotives  weighing  165  tons  each.  Nearly  all  the 
big  railroads  are  using  them  for  hauling  passenger  trains 
through  long  tunnels. 

Another  noticeable  development  at  St.  Louis,  in  contrast 
with  Chicago,  is  the  introduction  of  steel  in  the  manufacture  of 
cars.  If  there  was  a  steel  car  at  Chicago,  I  failed  to  see  it. 
At  St.  Louis  the  only  wood  freight  cars  on  exhibition  are  the 
refrigerator  cars. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  lessons  of  advancement  taught 
in  this  one  exhibit. 

Not  only  is  this  true  in  the  matter  of  transportation,  but 
in  every  walk  of  life  the  same  lesson  is  taught,  as  we  proceed 
from  building  to  building. 

[146] 


Memories  of  the  World's  Fair. 


While  governments  and  races  have  become  extinct,  man 
has  moved  steadily  upward,  constantly  improving  physically, 
morally  and  intellectually.  In  all  that  makes  life  worth  living, 
the  intelligent  wage-earner  of  today  gets  more  out  of  life  than 
the  rulers  of  kingdoms  at  the  time  of  the  signing  of  the  Louisi- 
ana Purchase  treaty.  To  the  innumerable  visitors,  gathered 
from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  these  buildings  have  given  an 
indelible  object  lesson  that  will  increase  in  value  every  year 
of  their  lives.  Art,  architecture  and  sculpture  will  disappear 
with  the  summer  flowers,  but  their  lineaments  and  proportions 
will  survive  as  long  as  life  lasts  in  the  memories  of  the  mil- 
lions who  have  studied  and  admired  them. 

Coming  after  so  many  others,  this  exposition  has  had  many 
advantages  over  all  others,  and  no  one  can  wander  around 
among  those  palaces,  reared  with  Aladdin-like  magic,  without 
admitting  that  it  is  the  greatest  of  them  all. 

— Hastings  Journal. 


147 


"Mrs.  S.  climbed  out  on  the  rocks." 

A  Day  at  Cliff. 

It  is  a  fact  often  commented  upon  that  there  is  something 
about  Nature  which  makes  her  lovers  clean,  honest  and  gener- 
ous. Anyone  who  loves  the  mountains,  woods,  lakes,  streams 
and  birds  is  the  better  for  it,  and  enjoys  life  the  more.  The 
love  of  these  things  grows  with  us,  becomes  a  part  of  us,  and 
we  are  the  better  physically  and  morally  for  it.  No  matter 
where  our  lot  is  cast,  this  desire  to  get'  close  to  the  heart  of 
Mother  Nature  comes  back  to  us.  Some  beautiful  morning  we 
leave  our  city  home  to  go  to  our  place  of  business,  and  the  first 
step  on  the  hard  pavement  brings  with  it  a  reminder  of  whis- 
pering leaves,  twittering  birds  and  rippling  waters.  There  is 
perhaps  something  in  the  air  this  particular  morning.  As  we 
step  out  it  catches  us  in  a  way  we  cannot  explain.  We  cannot 
reason  out  the  feeling,  but  it  is  there.  We  miss  the  flutter  of 
dead  leaves  about  our  feet;  the  resilient  carpet  of  moss  which 
clothes  the  great  avenues  under  the  pines  and  cedars  comes 
into  our  mind  and  we  want  to  be  there.  The  left  hand  longs 
for  the  familiar  motion  of  pushing  aside  the  intervening 
branches ;  the  right  itches  for  the  weight  of  rod  or  gun.  The 
sun  and  sky  seem  to  glare  down  in  our  eyes  and  we  long  for 

[149] 


A  Day  at  Cliff. 

the  restfulness  of  the  leafy  shade.  And  this  noise,  familiar  but 
just  now  unwelcome,  the  clatter  of  city  traffic  is  irritating. 
Where  is  the  breezy  and  beautiful  murmur  of  tree-tops?  The 
sound  of  tinkling  waters,  and  the  foam-crested  rock?  Uncon- 
sciously we  feel  the  balance  which  becomes  so  habitual  when 
carefully  stepping  on  the  wet  rocks  of  the  little  mountain 
stream  when  casting  the  fly.  Ah !  it  has  come  back  to  us — 
that  longing  for  the  tumbling  waters  and  towering  mountains 
where  we  have  enjoyed  so  many  happy  days.  And  more  than 
ever  we  miss  the  lullaby  of  rippling  waters  which  soothed  us 
to  sleep  at  night  and  met  us  at  daybreak  with  cool  kisses  as 
we  cast  our  fly  in  the  pool  below  the  falls. 

What  recollections  these  thoughts  of  mornings  in  the 
mountains  bring  us !  The  soft  breeze,  laden  with  the  odor  of 
pine  and  balsam,  steals  through  our  open  window.  The  lazy 
restfulness  of  doing  nothing,  if  nothing  it  pleases  us  to  do,  or 
the  anxiety  for  action  when  action  has  been  decided  upon  ;  the 
healthy,  vigorous  appetite  waiting  to  be  satisfied.  Where  do 
we  find  such  mornings  except  in  the  mountains?  And  the 
evenings — the  silent,  restful  evenings ;  the  body  tired,  but  the 
mind  invigorated  by  the  long  tramp  over  mountains  or  strenu- 
ous work  of  trouting  and  photographing.  And  last,  but  by  no 
means  least,  those  camp  fires  with  our  party  gathered  around 
within  a  circle  of  light  talking  over  the  experiences  of  the 
day,  singing  songs  and  telling  stories.  Who  that  has  sat  and 
listened  to  good  stories  while  watching  the  climbing  flames 
and  smoke  of  a  camp  fire  will  ever  forget  it?  Thoughts  that 
are  impossible  elsewhere  come  then.  You  are  carried  away  and 
become  a  part  of  the  story  that  is  being  told.  But  we  are  in  the 
city,  with  its  noise  and  bustle !  Let  us  get  out  of  it,  and  be 
off  for  the  mountains  for  two  weeks'  sweet  communion  with 
nature. 

We  had  been  planning  this  trip  for  some  time — the  doctor, 
the  attorney  and  myself — and,  through  correspondence  with 
friends  at  Cliff,  in  the  South  Platte  Canyon,  had  arranged  for 
accommodations  for  our  party  of  six,  composed  of  the  doctor, 

[150] 


A  Day  at  Cliff. 

the  attorney  and  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  the  writer  and  wife. 
At  last  the  long-wished  for  day  arrived  and  at  8  :15  p.  m.  we 
stepped  aboard  the  Burlington  flyer  and  were  off  on  our  vaca- 
tion. .We  made  a  quick  and  pleasant  run,  and  it  was  with 
joyous  anticipation  that  we  stepped  off  the  train  at  Cliff  next 
morning  at  10  a.  m.  We  were  all  tired  and  rested  up  until 
dinner,  and  about  mid-afternoon  we  strolled  up  the  canyon, 
fishing,  photographing  a  little  here  and  there  and  getting  re- 
acquainted  with  old  scenes  which  we  had  enjoyed  on  other 
vacations. 

About  3  o'clock  we  were  obliged  to  hurry  back  to  the  cot- 
tages to  escape  a  sudden  shower,  but  a  mountain  party  is  al- 
ways cheerful,  so  we  enjoyed  the  day  thoroughly,  as  we, 
lounged  about  reading,  talking  and  planning  the  different 
stages  of  our  trip.  Toward  evening  the  clouds  broke  away 
and  the  sun  peered  through  for  an  instant  before  it  passed  be- 
low the  long  range  of  mountains  behind  our  cottage. 

Next  morning  the  sun  rose  in  a  cloudless  sky  and  after 
breakfast  of  sizzling  hot  trout  and  other  good  things  we  were 
off  up  the  canyon. 

Though  our  whole  party  started  off  together,  it  was  plain 
to  see,  by  the  difference  in  equipment,  that  we  would  separate 
if  we  followed  our  intentions  as  indicated  by  what  we  carried. 

The  attorney,  wife  and  daughter  had  their  trout-tackle, 
which  meant  they  were  after  the  speckled  beauties ;  the  doctor 
his  alpine  staff,  the  writer  and  wife  a  light  trout-rod  and 
camera.  We  strolled  along  the  bank  of  the  lovely  little  stream 
until  the  canyon  began  to  narrow,  when  the  doctor,  with  a  look 
of  determination  on  his  face,  left  us  and  headed  for  the  highest 
mountain  peak  in  sight.  The  attorney  and  family  were  out 
after  trout  and  pushed  ahead  up  stream,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  fish  the  most  likely  looking  trout  waters.  Mrs.  S.  and  I 
dropped  behind,  as  we  stooped  to  pick  and  eat  the  luscious 
red  raspberries  and  gather  boquets  of  beautiful  mountain  flow- 
ers which  grew  in  great  profusion  and  endless  variety  along 
the  sides  of  the  canyon.  The  cool  morning  air  lent  exhilaration 

[151] 


A  Day  at  Cliff. 

to  our  already  over-flowing  spirits,  and  we  enjoyed  our  sur- 
roundings and  scenery  so  much  that  it  was  10  o'clock  when  we 
reached  the  falls.  I  took  out  my  flybook  and  prepared  a  cast 
for  the  pool  below  the  falls.  While  I  was  whipping  the 
stream,  Mrs.  S.  climbed  out  on  the  big  rocks  over  the  roaring 
waters  and  enjoyed  the  cool  breeze.  We  got  back  by  11  o'clock 
and  after  dinner  lolled  around  indolently  in  the  cool  shade  of 
the  inviting  pines  back  of  the  cottages,  reading  and  shooting  at 
a  target  with  the  attorney's  rifle.  As  we  rested  there  on  the 
cool  mountain  side  under  the  pines  we  could  not  help  feeling 
sorry  for  our  friends  who  were  sweltering  in  the  sun-baked 
streets  of  eastern  cities.  As  the  sun  disappeared  behind  the 
mountain  peaks  in  the  west  we  returned  to  the  cabins  and  pre- 
pared to  enjoy  the  evening  meal  which  our  mountain  appetites 
demanded. 

After  supper  we  gathered  around  a  big  fire  of  pine 
branches  and  logs  and  listened  to  Judge  J.'s  story  of  the  trial 
of  the  first  murder  case  in  a  Colorado  mining  camp  in  the 
days  when  the  west  was  "wild  and  woolly."  A  cool,  odorous 
breeze  blew  down  the  canon  and  gently  dissipated  the  smoke 
from  the  fire  which  burned  with  unusual  brightness  and  steadi- 
ness. We  were  so  interested  in  the  judge's  story  that  it  was 
late  bed-time  before  we  realized  it.  W^hen  we  sought  our  beds, 
the  rippling  music  of  the  waters  came  floating  up  so  distinctly 
that  it  seemed  as  though  the  little  mountain  stream  was  flow- 
ing directly  under  our  window.  The  wind  sang  lullabies  in 
the  pines,  and,  as  the  God  of  Slumber  approached,  his  attend- 
ants seemed  to  say: 

"A    little    murmur    in    mine    ear, 
A  little  ripple  at  my  feet." 

Thus  the  lovely  autumn  days  slipped  rapidly  by;  trouting, 
mountain  climbing  and  picnicking,  each  one  a  golden  bead  on 
life's  string.  Now,  in  the  long  evenings,  when  the  wintry 
blasts  howl  around  the  house  and  drive  the  drifting  snow 
against  the  windows  of  our  cozy  cottage,  we  sit  by  our  com- 

[152] 


A  Day  at  Cliff. 

fortable  fire  and  live  those  days  again.  Just  why  more  men 
do  not  emancipate  themselves  from  drudgery  once  a  year  is 
more  than  I  can  tell.  "Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that 
loved  her." 

The  better  you  know  her  the  more  you  love  her,  and  you 
will  live  longer  and  be  happier  for  having  made  her  acquaint- 
ance. The  woods,  hills  and  fields  are  the  greatest  health  re- 
storers on  earth.  It  was  Longfellow  who  said: 

"If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 

By  sorrows  thou  wouldst  forget, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills — no  tears 

Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears." 


153J 


A  Day  on  Bear  Brook. 

"When  autumn  winds  begin  to  blow, 
And  rustling  leaves  drift  to  and  fro; 
Then  shadowy  forms  of  bygone  days 
Dance  in  the  sunshine's  golden  rays." 

It  was  a  lovely  day  early  in  November.  The  oaks  and 
maples  were  blazing  forth  in  their  autumnal  colors ;  the  elms 
along  the  creek  bank  were  sadly  giving  up  their  yellow  leaves 
to  Mother  Earth.  Sharp  frosts  had  killed  the  tender  vegeta- 
tion and  browned  the  uplands  and  fields ;  but  here  and  there  in 
sheltered  spots  along  the  sunny  banks  of  the  stream  the  grass 
was  still  green,  as  if  trying  to  persuade  the  passer-by  that  an- 
other summer  had  come.  But  alas !  the  falling  leaves,  the  fad- 
ing golden  rod,  the  tints  of  the  foliage  and  the  blighted  vegeta- 
tion told  too  well  the  tale — that  summer's  days  were  o'er  and 
that  the  twilight  season  of  the  year  had  come.  I  had  started 
out  for  a  day  in  the  woods,  with  my  little  20-bore  on  my 
shoulder  and  my  setter,  Queen,  at  my  heels.  Striking  across 
the  meadow  land  that  separated  my  home  from  the  timber,  I 
came  out  on  the  banks  of  the  creek  and  followed  its  winding 
course  to  the  southward.  It  was  a  quiet,  lazy  day ;  one  of  those 
dreamy  fall  days  when  all  the  world  seems  to  be  at  a  stand- 
still— halting  between  summer  and  winter.  The  spirit  of  the 
hour  seemed  to  catch  me,  and  I  strolled  along,  following  every 
winding  turn  of  the  stream — forgetting  the  gun  on  my  shoulder 
and  the  empty  game  pockets  in  the  old  Barnard. 

A  thick  fringe  of  willows  lined  the  bank,  completely  hid- 
ing me  from  the  stream.  Every  few  rods  I  cautiously  parted 
them  and  peeped  up  and  down  the  creek,  in  hopes  of  catching 
sight  of  a  stray  mallard  or  teal ;  but  I  reached  the  point  where 
I  was  to  leave  the  main  water  course  without  seeing  so  much 
as  a  duck  feather.  About  three  miles  from  town  I  struck  the 
mouth  of  a  little  rivulet,  known  locally  as  Bear  Brook— a  clear, 
swift  little  stream  that  comes  from  some  large  springs  away 

[1551 


A  Day  on  Bear  Brook. 


back  among  the  hills  and  empties  its  crystal  waters  into  the 
murky  waters  of  the  creek.  Here,  among  the  bogs,  under  the 
shelter  of  the  thick  brush,  was  a  low  neck  of  ground  dividing 
the  two  streams — an  ideal  spot  for  a  belated  woodcock,  and 
seldom  had  it  disappointed  me.  I  sent  Queen  in,  and  followed 
along  the  edge  of  the  tangle  for  a  short  distance,  but  found  it 
impossible  to  see  through ;  so,  holding  my  gun  high  above 
my  head,  I  incautiously  broke  through  into  the  opening, 
stumbled  over  my  staunch  little  setter,  and  flushed  a  pair  of 
woodcock  from  under  her  nose.  The  two  whistlers  went 
straight  up  above  the  tops  of  the  trees,  then  made  a  quick  twist 
up  stream;  but  I  caught  one  of  them  on  the  turn,  and,  at  the 
crack  of  the  gun,  he  came  whirling  down  to  the  ground.  Queen 
rushed  in  through  the  thick  tangle  of  brush  and  vines  and  soon 
came  back  with  the  bird  in  her  mouth  and  a  pleased  look  in 
her  eye  that  seemed  to  say,  "He's  a  beauty." 

About  forty  rods  above  where  I  got  the  woodcock  the 
brook  made  a  sharp  turn  to  the  northeast.  The  hills  were  high 
on  the  north  and  west,  and  there  was  a  dense  thicket  of  thorn- 
apple  and  crab-apple,  with  wild  grape  vines  running  all  over 
them.  I  had  seen  a  brood  of  young  pheasants  there  early  in 
the  season,  and  now  headed  for  their  sunny  nook  as  the  next 
best  place  to  help  out  my  empty  game  pockets.  I  kept  Queen 
to  heel  until  I  got  in  a  good  position  on  the  outside  cover, 
where  the  birds  would  be  sure  to  give  me  a  shot  when  they 
were  flushed.  Queen  worked  carefully  into  the  thicket  and  I 
soon  lost  sight  of  her,  but  could  still  hear  the  patter  of  her  feet 
on  the  dry  leaves.  Soon  this  stopped,  and  while  trying  to  lo- 
cate her,  a  pheasant  burst  out  of  the  farther  side  of  the  thicket. 
He  was  fifty  yards  down-stream  before  I  sighted  him  and  he 
kept  straight  on  after  I  fired — not  even  leaving  me  a  feather  as 
a  souvenir.  I  hardly  had  time  to  drop  a  shell  in  the  empty 
barrel  when  two  more  birds  broke  cover.  One  of  them  went 
straightaway  down-stream  and  the  other  circled  around  the 
end  of  the  thicket  to  the  left.  I  fired  at  the  quarterer  and 
killed ;  then  swung  around  and  pulled  on  the  other  one,  just  as 

[156] 


A  Day  on  Bear  Brook. 


he  was  turning  the  creek  bend.  The  feathers  flew  and  so  did 
the  bird — apparently  none  the  worse  for  leaving  a  part  of  his 
new  winter  suit  with  me.  Queen  retrieved  the  dead  bird  and 
then  stood  wagging  her  tail,  waiting  for  further  orders.  It  was 
nearly  noon,  and  the  cool,  sparkling  waters  of  the  spring  that 
bubbled  up  from  under  the  roots  of  the  old  elm  suggested 
lunch  time.  From  the  side  pocket  of  the  old  duck  coat  I  dis- 
interred the  tin  lunch-box  and  the  folding  drinking  cup,  and 
we  went  to  work  to  try  and  satisfy  the  inner  man  and  the  inner 
dog. 

I  lounged  around  on  the  sunny  bank  for  an  hour  or  more 
after  lunch,  trying  to  decide  whether  to  go  back  down-stream 
or  hunt  up  to  the  head  of  the  creek  and  across  through  Seeley 
Wood  towards  home.  On  the  latter  route  I  was  almost  sure  to 
pick  up  a  few  gray  squirrels,  if  I  failed  to  get  any  more 
pheasants.  Besides,  as  another  inducement,  there  was  an  old 
cock  pheasant  at  the  head  of  the  brook,  that  I  had  flushed  sev- 
eral times  during  the  fall  without  being  able  to  get  a  feather 
from  his  glossy  coat.  This  was  likely  to  be  my  last  hunt  of  the 
season  and  I  wanted  one  more  chance  at  him.  I  sent  Queen 
in  ahead  and  we  worked  cautiously  forward ;  but  found  noth- 
ing until  we  reached  the  head  of  the  brook.  Here  there  was  a 
large  tract  of  wet,  springy  ground,  with  many  little  rivulets 
a  foot  or  so  wide  flowing  through  it  to  the  main  brook.  The 
place  was  thickly  covered  with  alders  and  willows,  with  a  net- 
work of  vines  running  all  over  them — one  of  the  likeliest  places 
in  the  world  for  grouse — and  this  was  the  home  of  our  wary 
old  cock  of  the  wood.  On  all  former  occasions  when  calling  on 
him  he  had  been  so  unmannerly  as  to  bolt  out  the  back  way 
while  I  was  knocking  at  the  front.  In  order  to  defeat  this 
move  of  his,  I  adopted  different  tactics.  I  sent  Queen  in  the 
front  way  and  took  a  position  on  the  north  side  of  the  thicket 
near  an  opening  he  would  have  to  cross  in  the  line  of  flight 
formerly  taken  when  flushed  from  his  home  cover.  The  ground 
was  wet  where  Queen  was  working  and  I  could  hear  her  pat- 
tering in  the  water  as  she  neared  the  middle  of  the  thicket. 

[157] 


A  Day  on  Bear  Brook. 


Suddenly  the  noise  ceased,  and  I  knew  she  had  him  nailed  and 
that  I  would  soon  have  another  chance  to  try  my  skill  on  the 
old  fellow.  I  heard  the  patter  of  her  feet  again,  as  she  moved 
up  on  him.  The  old  deceiver  was  making  a  run  for  it  before 
taking  to  wing.  Then  there  was  another  silence  and  I  held 
my  breath,  for  I  knew  what  was  sure  to  follow.  A  breathless 
silence  of  a  few  seconds;  then  a  faint  "Quit-quit!"  a  roar  of 
wings,  and  the  bird  broke  cover  on  the  extreme  point  of  the 
thicket.  The  instant  the  cunning  old  cock  struck  the  open  he 
circled  short  to  the  right  around  a  point  of  brush,  to  shield  him- 
self. He  was  just  disappearing  behind  a  tree-top  as  I  caught  a 
bead  well  ahead  and  fired  through  the  leaves.  A  moment  of 
listening  suspense,  and  I  heard  the  welcome  thud  of  the  dead 
bird  as  he  struck  the  ground.  To  say  that  I  was  pleased 
would  be  putting  it  too  mildly.  I  walked  around  the  end  of 
the  brush  and  met  faithful  Queen,  with  the  bird  in  her  mouth. 
Taking  him  from  her,  I  smoothed  down  his  glossy  brown  coat 
and  slipped  him  into  my  pocket  with  a  feeling  that  this  alone 
was  glory  enough  for  one  day.  He  was  a  magnificent  bird,  the 
largest  and  finest  I  had  ever  seen,  and  I  have  hunted  the  ruffed 
grouse  since  early  boyhood.  He  occupied  the  place  of  honor 
on  our  dinner  table  next  day,  and  his  tail  was  tacked  up  over 
the  desk  in  my  library,  where  it  remained  for  many  years. 

—Sports  Afield. 


I  158| 


"The  sunlit  riffles  of  the  bay. 


September  Days  at  Madison  Lake. 

How  well  do  I  remember,  when  a  boy 
studying  my  geography  lesson,  pic- 
turing in  my  mind's  eye  the 
kind  of  country  and  the  char- 
acter of  hunting  and  fishing 
to  be  found  in  the  great  for- 
ests, lakes  and  rivers  of 
Minnesota.  Geography  was 
always  a  favorite  study  with 
me  and  specially  that  per- 
taining to  the  lake-land 
country  of  the  north  and  the 
mountainous  sections  of  the 
west.  I  wondered  if  I  would  ever 
be  fortunate  enough  to  fish  and  hunt 
in  that  sportman's  paradise.  It  was  not 
until  I  had  entered  upon  the  stern  duties  of  life  that  those  boy- 
hood views  were  realized,  and  I  was  not  disappointed  in  the 
realization,  for  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life  have  been 
passed  in  this  boyhood  dreamland.  For  twenty  years  I  have 
visited  these  lakes  almost  every  year,  and  nearly  every  month 
during  the  year  and  every  season  has  had  its  charms.  Even  the 
winter,  with  its  cold,  its  dead  and  cheerless  desolation,  has  its 
robe  of,  chaste  white,  which,  like  the  fascinations  of  spring- 
time, the  summer  and  the  autumn,  has  been  the  theme  of  wood- 
land verse  and  song.  But  in  gorgeous  beauty  there  is  no  season 
so  rich  as  autumn.  A  calm  autumn  day  in  these  northern  woods, 
or  floating  calmly  in  a  boat  on  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful lakes,  with  your  better  half  as  a  companion,  is  a  thing  to 
be  thankful  for.  To  see  the  bright  sun  floating  through  the 
sky  of  blue,  shedding  its  placid  light  over  the  earth  when  the 
air  is  clear,  the  winds  hushed,  and  the  leaves  motionless  on  the 
trees,  then  to  look  along  the  hillside  and  mark  the  bright  sun- 
light and  the  deep  shadows  on  the  autumn-tinted  foliage,  is  a 

[159] 


September  Days  at  Madison  Lake. 

feast  for  the  eye  of  a  nature-lover.  This  year  we  were  a  little 
too  early  to  see  the  picture  complete.  October  is  the  artist  that 
touches  each  forest  leaf  and  branch  with  the  dyes  which  the 
summer  flowers  were  fain  to  use.  The  deft  finger  of  the  hoar 
frost  traces  out  the  line  and  blends  them,  and  the  gentle  breath 
of  the  Indian  summer  kindles  them  into  a  universal  glow, 
which  vies  with  the  tints  of  gorgeous  sunset.  Until  I  beheld 
the  Minnesota  landscape,  I  had  no  conception  of  the  intensity 
of  autumn  colors.  On  a  hot  September  morning,  Mrs.  Steele 
and  I  packed  our  trunks  and  fishing  tackle  and  boarded  the 
train  for  Madison  Lake.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barclay  of  Point  Pleas- 
ant had  invited  us  to  spend  our.  vacation  with  them  at  their 
ideal  resort  on  "The  Point,"  and  we  accepted,  thankful  to  leave 
the  city,  sweltering  in  the  rays  of  a  September  sun,  for  that 
cool  retreat  on  Madison  Lake.  Next  morning,  at  break  of  day, 
found  us  at  Randolph,  Minnesota,  where  we  changed  cars  to 
the  Minneapolis  &  Mankato  line  of  the  Great  Western.  After 
a  run  of  fifty  miles  through  that  beautiful  canyon  valley,  one  of 
the  loveliest  sections  of  the  park  region,  we  arrived  at  our 
destination  in  time  for  one  of  Mrs.  Barclay's  inviting  midday 
lunches.  Saturday  afternoon  was  passed  quietly  at  The  Point, 
visiting  with  old  friends  and  making  new  ones,  feasting  our 
eyes  on  the  beauties  of  lake  and  wood.  And  what  a  feast  for  the 
eyes  of  dwellers  of  a  prairie  country !  The  whole  landscape  was 
aglow  with  verdure  just  taking  on  the  first  autumn  tints.  As 
we  strolled  along  the  shore  of  the  lake,  the  squirrels  chattered 
overhead,  and  the  waters  of  the  lake  glistened  between  the 
overhanging  branches  of  the  trees,  filling  the  view  with  con- 
stantly recurring  surprises,  such  as  metropolitan  treasuries 
have  spent  millions  to  reproduce  in  city  parks.  Sunday  morn- 
ing we  attended  services  at  the  little  mission  church  in  the 
village.  Monday  morning  was  very  cool  and  a  light  fog  hung 
over  the  lake.  A  light  wind  stirred  up  a  ripple  on  the  water 
just  right  for  fishing.  After  lunch  Mrs.  Steele,  Major  Mc- 
Kusick,  of  Minneapolis,  and  I  loaded  ourselves  and  tackle  into 
a  boat  and  pulled  away  for  the  fishing  ground.  As  we  rowed 

[160] 


September  Days  at  Madison  Lake. 

along  down  the  shore  I  observed  a  reef  of  woods  and  rushes 
extending  out  south  of  the  point  and  suggested  that  possibly 
fish  would  be  lying  along  its  side,  so  we  resolved  to  try  it  and 
cast  over  the  anchor.  Mrs.  Steele  started  off  with  a  large  crop- 
pie,  and  soon  after  hooked  another  of  the  same  size.  The  Major 
followed  with  a  couple  of  fine  pickerel,  and  I  added  a  pair  of 
black  bass.  Though  we  fished  for  an  hour  faithfully,  after 
catching  the  bass,  we  failed  to  get  another  strike,  so  raised  the 
anchor  and  pulled  in.  The  days  were  glorious  repetitions  of 
the  first.  Fish  there  were,  not  in  great  abundance,  but  in  suf- 
ficient number  to  make  our  angling  trips  enjoyable  and  keep 
our  table  supplied  with  fresh  fish.  Launch  parties,  boating, 
fishing,  and  evening  musicales  took  up  the  time  so  fast  that 
our  limited  vacation  was  at  an  end  before  we  realized  it.  On 
the  last  three  days  on  the  lake  I  had  Professor  Newhall, 
of  Faribault,  as  a  fishing  companion,  and  a  more  genial 
gentleman  I  never  met  or  angled  with.  We  were  to  start  for 
home  on  Wednesday,  and  Tuesday  morning  found  us  over  on 
West  Bay  industriously  throwing  frogs  among  the  rushes.  I 
was  using  an  entirely  new  outfit  for  casting,  but  was  not  dis- 
appointed, for,  let  me  say  right  here,  that  my  five  and  one-half 
foot  New  Century  steel  rod,  Shakespeare  reel,  and  Kingfisher 
line  were  all  right.  By  11  o'clock  we  had  a  half  dozen  nice  fish, 
and  as  we  were  striking  very  slowly,  we  decided  to  run  in. 
I  made  a  final  cast  out  toward  the  center  of  the  lake  in  order  to 
spool  up  my  line  smoothly.  Hardly  had  the  frog  struck  the 
water  when  there  was  a  tug  on  the  line  which  brought  me  to 
my  feet.  The  fish  came  in,  as  I  reeled,  like  a  heavy  stick  until 
he  caught  sight  of  me.  Then  he  made  the  water  boil  as  he  tore 
away  for  the  rushes.  As  he  turned,  I  noticed  I  was  hooked  to 
a  large  pickerel  by  a  very  frail  hold.  I  turned  him  before  he 
reached  the  rushes,  then  he  sulked  and  reeled  in  again  like  a 
stick.  Professor  Newhall  stood  ready  to  land  him,  but  when 
he  caught  sight  of  the  boat  he  shook  his  head  savagely,  tore 
loose  and  disappeared  under  the  boat.  However,  the  fish  al- 
ready on  our  string  would  furnish  our  fish  course  for  dinner, 

[161] 


September  Days  at  Madison  Lake. 


and  glory  enough  for  the 
morning's  sport,  so  we  were 
content  to  quit  for  the  morn- 
ing. 

After  lunch  we  discussed 
the  situation  and  decided  to 
row  across  the  bay  and  try 
Stony  Point,  which  we  reached 
after  a  pull  that  forced  the 
perspiration  from  every  pore. 
We  dropped  anchor  near  the 
rushes,  put  on  frogs,  and  com- 
menced casting.  We  worked 
hard,  alternately  anchoring 
and  drifting,  but  were  doomed 
to  disappointment.  After  an 
hour  of  this  kind  of  work,  we 
decided  to  float  down  south 
bay  casting  in  favorable 
places,  and  if  we  failed  to  get 
a  strike,  pull  out  for  home. 
We  had  drifted  in  close  to  the 
shore  and  Professor  Newhall 
was  rowing  out,  when,  glanc- 
ing back  at  my  rod,  he  said, 
"Doc,  your  hook  has  caught 
on  something."  As  the  water 
was  quite  shallow,  I  thought 
at  first  I  had  fouled  a  snag, 
but  the  instant  I  tightened  my 
line,  a  large  bass  leaped  clear 
of  the  water.  I  trembled  for 
my  leader  which  had  seen 
much  service,  but  it  held  firm 
and  when  I  finally  brought 
him  alongside  of  the  boat, 


"My  twenty-six  inch  bass. 


September  Days  at  Madison  Lake. 

Professor  Newhall  deftly  slid  him  over  the  side  to  a  place  of 
safety.  My  catch  proved  to  be  a  twenty-inch  bass,  and  a  beau- 
tiful speciment.  Professor  Newhall  followed  my  catch  with 
two,  then  we  were  obliged  to  hasten  to  the  boathouse  to  escape 
a  storm.  After  our  evening  meal  we  strolled  out  under  the  big 
maples  and  enjoyed  our  last  sunset  of  the  season  from  beau- 
tiful Point  Pleasant.  Across  the  bay,  westward,  the  heavens 
were  all  aflame,  and  the  sunlit  ripples  of  the  bay  glistened  like 
bars  of  polished  silver.  We  stood  in  the  deepening  shadows 
under  the  big  trees  in  silent  wonder  and  admiration  ;  what  were 
we  to  speak  when  the  Great  Architect  was  talking?  Slowly 
the  sun  disappeared,  gilding  the  tops  of  the  loftiest  trees  with  a 
level  bar  of  fire,  for  an  instant,  then  lost  its  light,  and  we  knew 
our  vacation  was  ended,  swallowed  up  in  a  misty  past  with  the 
others. 

"I'm  thinking  of  lazy  September 

And  the  lakes  in  the  forest  so  green, 
With  low-wooded  hills  beyond  them 

And  the  wind-dimpled  waters  between; 
Of  the  halcyon  days  now  departed, 

When  I  rocked  on  their  waters  so  pure, 
Enthralled  by  these  gems  of  the  forest 

While  the  waves  lapped  a  sweet  overture." 

Outers'   Book. 


163  1 


An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska. 

September  27,  1892,  at  4:40  o'clock  a.  m.,  found  the  writer 
and  his  better  half  boarding  the  limited  express  of  the  C.  &  N. 
W."  R.  R.  at  Ogden,  la.  We  were  off  for  Hastings,  Neb.,  the 
home  of  my  brother,  Dr.  J.  T.  Steele.  Our  object  was  three- 
fold— a  visit,  rest  and  recreation.  For  the  latter  my  brother 
and  I  had  planned  to  put  in  all  our  time  behind  the  dog  and 
gun  in  pursuit  of  the  little  brown  beauties.  Continuous  hard 
work  over  the  dental  chair  for  the  past  eight  or  nine  months 
had  nearly  worked  the  life  out  of  me,  and  for  several  weeks 
before  starting  on  my  annual  trip  I  had  kept  myself  up  on 
anticipation,  and  reading  brother  sportsmen's  articles  in  the  pa- 
pers. I  had  hungered  for  months  for  the  good  appetite  and 
peaceful  sleep  that  always  succeed  a  tramp  behind  the  dog  and 
gun,  in  the  cool  bracing  air  of  an  October  day  on  the  prairies 
of  the  west. 

After  fixing  ourselves  as  comfortably  as  possible,  we 
leaned  back  in  our  reclining  chairs  and  tried  to  finish  the  morn- 
ing doze,  which  had  been  so  sadly  broken  into  by  the  hotel 
clerk  calling:  "Time  for  the  4:40  train."  Shortly  after  day- 
light our  train  pulled  into  the  busy  little  station  of  Missouri 
Valley.  Here  we  changed  cars  to  the  E.  &  M.  V.,  and  in  ten 
minutes  were  speeding  up  the  Missouri  bottom.  At  California 
Junction  our  train  branched  off  toward  the  river,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more  had  crossed  the  "Big  Muddy,"  and  we  were 
twisting  up  between  the  bluffs  on  the  Nebraska  side.  After 
crossing  the  Platte  River  and  getting  among  the  big  grain  and 
corn  fields,  we  noticed  a  change  that  did  not  strike  my  hunter's 
eye  as  favorable  for  shooting.  Vegetation  looked  as  if  rain 
were  a  stranger  to  it ;  the  roads  and  streets  were  dry  and  dusty. 
In  approaching  a  town  it  could  be  marked  miles  ahead  of  our 
train  by  the  clouds  of  dust  rising  from  the  streets ;  a  very  dis- 
couraging and  disagreeable  combination  for  quail  shooting. 

At  4  o'clock  p.  m.  we  arrived  at  the  bright,  clean  little  city 
of  Hastings,  and  found  my  brother  waiting  for  us.  After  a 

[165] 


An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska. 


hearty  greeting  we  were  driven  to  his  home,  where  we  were 
welcomed  by  his  wife.  Supper  over,  J.  T.  and  I  left  the  ladies 
to  talk  over  the  woman's  side  of  the  world,  and  we  went  down 
town  to  see  the  boys  and  talk  shoot.  This  same  little  queen 
city  of  the  plains  contains  as  jolly  a  lot  of  boys  belonging  to  the 
shooting  fraternity  as  one  will  find  in  a  city  of  its  size  in  the 
country.  But  they  are  a  truthful  lot  of  shooters  and  answered 
my  inquiries  about  the  prospects :  "Plenty  of  birds  but  can't 
find  them ;  too  dry ;  we  have  had  no  rain  since  July."  As  the 
open  season  began  Saturday  morning,  October  1,  my  brother 
and  I  thought  we  would  face  the  dust  and  wind  and  see  if  we 
could  not  knock  out  quails  enough  for  our  Sunday  dinner.  We 
started  about  9  o'clock  and  drove  out  four  miles  south  of  town 
to  a  timbered  draw.  Hitching  the  horse  to  a  tree,  we  got  our 
guns,  put  them  together,  filled  our  shell  pockets,  turned  old 
Sport  loose  and  started  down  the  east  side  of  the  creek.  We  all 
three  worked  hard  and  faithfully  down  as  far  as  the  brush  ex- 
tended, then  crossed  over  and  came  back  on  the  west  side, 
reaching  the  buggy  about  2  o'clock  without  seeing  a  feather. 
We  selected  a  shady  place  behind  the  buggy,  spread  clown  the 
lap  robe,  and  opened  up  our  lunch  basket.  In  the  morning  when 
we  saw  the  ladies  putting  up  the  lunch,  we  told  them  there  was 
•  enough  for  a  gang  of  harvest  hands,  but  we  had  no  trouble  in 
disposing  of  everything  but  the  basket  and  dishes.  While  we 
sat  discussing  our  last  cup  of  coffee,  Brother  J.  T.  suddenly 
turned  around  and  pointed  up  the  creek.  Following  his  finger 
with  my  eye,  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  a  fine  bevy  of  quails  set- 
tling down  in  the  brush  on  the  east  side  of  the  creek.  Picking 
up  our  guns  we  started  after  them,  J.  T.  and  I  keeping  along 
on  the  outside  edge  of  the  timber,  letting  the  dog  work  back- 
ward ahead  of  us.  Old  Sport  was  onto  his  job,  and  worked 
very  cautiously,  but  just  as  he  began  to  draw  on  the  birds  the 
whole  bevy  broke  cover  away  ahead  of  him,  and  going  about 
eighty  rods  east,  dropped  down  in  a  patch  of  ragweed  near  an 
old  pasture  fence.  Circling  around  to  get  the  wind,  we  worked 
up  to  them  carefully,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fence.  Sport 

[166] 


An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska. 


struck  the  scent,  crawled  along  the  fence  a  few  rods  and 
stopped,  saying  as  plainly  as  a  dog  can,  "There  they  are  in 
that  bunch."  I  took  one  more  step  forward  and  they  arose 
with  a  whir.  We  each  got  a  shot  with  one  bird  to  each  gun, 
and  that  was  the  last  we  saw  of  them,  as  they  went  out  of 
sight  in  the  timber  and  could  not  be  found  again.  Returning  to 
the  buggy  we  hitched  up  and  headed  old  Tom  for  home,  hunt- 
ing every  likely-looking  place  along  the  road  without  seeing 
another  quail. 

During  the  next  ten  days  J.  T.  and  I  drove  out  nearly 
every  evening  for  a  hunt,  never  striking  more  than  one  or  two 
bevies  on  an  evening,  and  not  getting  more  than  one  or  two 
shots  at  a  bevy.  The  Thursday  evening  before  I  was  to  leave 
for  home,  some  of  the  boys  were  in  L.  P.  Davis'  place  of  busi- 
ness, and  it  was  unanimously  decided  that  we  must  have  one 
good  company  hunt  before  I  left.  After  talking  the  matter 
over  we  decided  to  go  the  next  morning  to  the  big  lagoon  for 
jacksnipes  and  ducks. 

Friday  morning,  as  J.  T.  and  I  were  getting  on  our  shoot- 
ing togs,  we  heard  a  welcome  "whoa,"  from  the  driver,  and 

from  Charlie  W ,  "All  aboard  for  the  lagoon."  Our  rig 

was  a  big  covered  hack  with  seats  arranged  on  either  side  and 
plenty  of  room  under  the  seats  for  the  paraphernalia,  eatables 
and  drinkables  of  the  party ;  and  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  the  lat- 
ter to  carry  a  party  of  shooters  through  a  day's  hunting  in  this 
climate. 

Our  party  consisted  of  Charlie  Walrodt,  L.  P.  Davis,  Billy 
Keedle,  Dr.  J.  T.  Steele,  the  writer  and  Jim  Knight,  the  driver. 
For  dogs  we  had  Davis'  two  Irish  setters  and  Charlie's  staunch 
old  pointer.  It  did  not  take  long  to  find  out  that  the  weather 
had  changed  in  the  night.  The  wind  had  swung  around  into 
the  northeast  and  came  down  cold  enough  to  make  a  gum  coat 
over  the  shooting  coat  feel  good.  We  were  all  fixed  for  it  but 
Davis.  He  wore  a  light  summer  coat  and  had  no  heavy  one 
along.  He  shut  his  teeth,  humped  up  his  back  to  the  chilly 
morning  blast  and  stood  it  for  about  two  miles,  when  we  saw 

[167] 


An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska. 


he  had  a  sportsman's  grit  and  our  hunter's  sympathy  was 
awakened.  Upon  inquiry  we  learned  that  Jim  had  an  extra 
coat  under  his  seat  that  he  kept  for  just  such  emergencies.  The 
drive  across  the  prairies  between  great  fields  of  corn  and  grain 
and  comfortable  farm-houses  was  worth  the  expense  of  the 
whole  trip. 

Arriving  at  the  lagoon  about  9  o'clock,  we  tossed  out  the 
sack  of  decoys  near  the  south  pass,  then  drove  to  the  north 
end,  where  there  were  some  haystacks.  After  unhitching  the 
horses  and  turning  them  to  the  wagon  feedbox,  we  all  turned 
to  Jim  for  directions.  He  said  two  should  go  up  to  the  pass 
on  the  north  arm,  put  out  half  of  the  decoys  and  shoot  there; 
two  should  take  the  rest  of  the  decoys  and  go  to  the  west 
side ;  the  other  two,  who  had  hip  boots,  could  wade  through 
the  lagoon  and  jump  ducks.  Davis  and  Jim  went  to  the  lower 
pass,  Billy  and  the  writer  were  in  for  the  wading.  The  two 
that  started  north  had  not  got  two  rods  from  the  wagon  before 
"scape !"  went  a  jacksnipe ;  bang  went  Charlie's  Parker  and, 
at  the  crack,  Mr.  Longbill  dropped.  As  soon  as  the  boys  got 
fixed  in  their  stands  and  we  began  shooting,  the  ducks  began 
moving,  and  Billy  and  the  writer  kept  them  on  the  move  for  an 
hour  or  two,  when  we  thought  things  were  getting  too  hot  and 
moved  to  a  more  congenial  climate. 

By  this  time  the  snipes  began  to  drop  in,  and  we  turned 
our  attention  to  them  until  about  1  o'clock,  when  we  all  struck 
out  for  the  wagon  for  lunch.  We  were  all  on  hand  but  Billy 
K .  While  discussing  his  whereabouts  we  heard  the  re- 
port of  his  pumpgun  away  over  on  the  east  side.  Poor  Billy ! 
He  had  miscalculated  the  size  of  the  lagoon  and  had  about 
three  miles  yet  to  walk  before  he  could  satisfy  the  cravings  of 
the  inner  man.  He  put  in  an  appearance  about  2  o'clock,  tired, 
muddy  and  hungry,  but  did  full  justice  to  both  the  solids  and 
liquids. 

After  an  hour's  chat  and  smoke  we  struck  out  again.  Jim 
went  back  to  his  old  duck  stand ;  the  rest  of  us  went  after 
snipes.  The  afternoon  was  warm  and  pleasant ;  almost  too 

[168] 


An  Autumn  Outing  in  Nebraska. 


fine  for  good  shooting ;  but  we  found  snipes  enough  to  keep  up 
the  interest.  About  6  o'clock  we  straggled  back  to  the  wagon, 
hitched  up,  drove  up  town  to  Jim's  stand  and  loaded  him  and 
his  decoys  in  just  as  the  October  sun  was  sinking  behind  the 
western  hills.  On  counting  our  game  we  found  we  had  thirty- 
five  birds — fifteen  ducks  and  twenty  snipes. 

The  trip  home  was  shortened  by  songs  and  stories.  When 
Jim  pulled  up  at  the  gate  he  said:  "Boys,  divide  my  birds 
among  the  party;  I  didn't  go  for  game."  Compare  this,  brother 
shooters,  with  some  liverymen  who  ask  two  prices  for  a  team, 
try  to  get  all  the  best  shooting,  and  then  at  night  try  to  sell 
you  their  birds  for  four  times  their  value.  It  was  8  o'clock  when 
we  got  into  the  house,  tired  and  hungry,  but  what  a  supper  we 
found  awaiting  us,  and  what  a  pleasure  to  eat  and  rest  after 
having  spent  the  day  afield ! 

How  much  real  enjoyment  a  man  loses  in  life  who  is  not 
a  lover  of  this  noble  sport.  This  was  my  last  shooting  on  this 
trip.  On  Monday  my  wife  and  I  boarded  the  train  for  home, 
and  I  returned  to  my  work  stronger,  better  and  happier  for 
the  trip. 

— American  Field. 


169 


An  Evening  on  Lake  Waterford. 

Here  we  are  once  again  in  the  dear  old  woods;  among  the 
birds,  trees,  and  flowers ;  away  from  the  prison-like  brick  walls 
of  the  city  with  its  care-worn  throng,  dusty,  sun-baked  streets, 
and  rumbling  wheels  of  business. 

Our  tents  are  pitched  on  a  grassy  slope  on  the  west  shore 
of  Lake  Waterford ;  a  beautiful  little  silver  thread  of  cool 
spring  water,  rippling  over  the  white  sand  and  pebbles,  softly 
sings  its  lullaby  at  our  tent  door,  and  winding  through  the 
green  sward,  loses  itself  in  the  lake  beyond. 

Tall  forest  trees  are  all  around  us,  and  stretching  away 
back  of  our  tent  rises  a  grand  old  hill,  its  rounded  green  top 
standing  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  evening  sky,  behind 
which  the  descending  sun  is  just  disappearing  as  it  bids  the 
world  good-night. 

The  glad  voices  of  the  birds  are  ringing  through  the  woods 
as  they  join  in  their  evening  songs.  A  chipmunk  runs  clown 
to  the  rivulet  for  his  evening  drink ;  after  quenching  his  thirst, 
saucily  flirts  his  tail  at  me  as  he  runs  up  the  slanting  cotton- 
wood  log  to  his  home  in  the  top. 

Lazily  rolling  on  my  back  in  the  hammock,  I  look  up 
through  the  spreading  branches  of  the  old  beech  and  watch 
the  sun-tinted,  fleecy  clouds,  drifting  across  the  evening  sky. 

But  the  shadows  of  evening  are  gathering;  the  last  golden 
tinge  of  the  setting  sun  is  fading  from  the  sky.  The  cool 
breath  of  evening  is  stealing  up  from  the  lake ;  the  birds  have 
hushed  their  songs,  and  all  is  quiet ;  'tis  the  twilight  hour,  the 
most  lovely  of  all — 

"Oh,  twilight  hour,   spirit  that  does   render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments  melting  heaven  to  earth — 
Leaving  on  hills,  lakes  and  running  streams 
A  softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams." 

But  hark !  the  voices  of  night  are  taking  the  place  of  song- 
birds. The  whippoorwill  pipes  his  evening  notes  from  the 

[171] 


An  Evening  on  Lake  Waterford. 


point  across  the  bay ;  the  voices  of  the  frogs  and  little  peepers 
come  up  from  the  lake  shore ;  the  trembling  notes  of  the  tree 
toad  and  the  katydid,  and  mournful  hoot  of  the  owl,  fall  sooth- 
ingly on  the  ear;  for  however  apparently  discordant  these 
sounds  may  be  to  others,  they  are  a  sweet  lullaby  song  to  the 
tired  camper. 

But  here  come  Will,  Airs.  H.,  Mrs.  S.,  and  Charley  for 
our  evening  row  on  the  lake.  We  go  down  to  the  landing,  get 
into  the  boat,  throw  over  the  trolling  lines,  and  pull  out  for 
an  hour  on  the  lake.  It  is  too  calm,  and  the  lake  too  smooth, 
to  expect  any  success  with  the  hook  and  line,  but  the  evening 
hour  on  lovely  Waterford  is  one  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Just  as  our  boat  glides  out  from  under  the  heavy  shadows 
of  the  short  line — 

Night  rises  yawning  from  her  couch 

And  dons  a  robe  of  black; 
From  jewel  case  then  takes  a  star, 

And  pins  the  curtain  back. 
Her  blushing  queen,  just  peeping  through, 

Turns  back  to  silvered  gray; 
While  fainter  grows  the  crimson  west, 

Where  sleeps  the  king  of  day. 

A  short  row  across  the  bay  and  here  we  are  on  the  south 
side  of  the  island ;  let  us  rest  on  our  oars  for  a  few  moments 
and  enjoy  the  lovely  moonlit  scenery  around  us.  Close  on  our 
left  is  the  wooded  shores  of  the  island ;  off  to  the  east  can  be 
seen  the  round  top  of  "Washington  Mound,"  and,  glimmering 
through  the  trees,  the  lights  of  the  pretty  village  of  Water- 
ford  ;  above  us,  the  bright  harvest  moon  and  blue  sky,  jeweled 
with  its  millions  of  stars. 

Now,  look  down  into  the  calm  depths  of  the  lake ;  there 
you  will  see  the  same  sky,  moon,  and  stars ;  and  so  real  is  the 
reflection  that  it  seems  as  though  our  boat  is  suspended  by  an 
invisible  cord,  between  two  starry  heavens. 

We  pull  on  around  the  island  toward  camp.  The  water 
is  so  smooth  and  we  glide  through  it  so  quietly,  that  every 

[172] 


An  Evening  on  Lake  Waterford. 

little  while  Mrs.  H.  or  Mrs.  S.  reach  out  over  the  boat  and 
dip  their  hands  in  the  water  to  see  if  we  are  really  moving. 

Rowing  on  around  the  south  side  of  the  island  we  pass  the 
village  boat-landing,  and  glide  along  down  the  west  shore  to 
camp.  A  bright  fire  of  light  wood  is  soon  burning  and  we 
gather  in  a  family  circle  around  it.  The  brighter  the  fire  lights 
up  the  immediate  surroundings,  the  darker  grow  the  shadows 
in  the  forest  beyond.  What  odd  and  distorted  shapes  the  most 
common-place  things  assume  in  a  bright  firelight,  with  the 
deep  forest  shadows  for  a  background !  See  that  piece  of 
broken  limb ;  it  looks  like  a  panther  crouched  for  a  spring !  See 
yon  big  vine,  twisted  around  that  old  forest  monarch,  with  its 
broken  end  hanging  out  from  the  tree,  swaying  back  and  forth 
in  the  breeze ;  it  looks  like  a  big  serpent !  That  old  rotten 
stump  by  the  side  of  the  path  looks  like  a  bear  watching  a 
chance  to  embrace  somebody. 

Beyond,  through  the  small  opening  in  the  trees,  shows  a 
little  patch  of  the  lake,  and  so  brightly  does  it  glisten  in  the 
moonlight  that  it  looks  like  a  suspended  mirror  in  the  foliage. 

Looking  at  these  unstable  shadows  is  like  day-dreaming 
among  the  summer  clouds.  One's  imagination  can  weave  them 
into  all  sorts  of  fanciful  shapes  and  forms. 

While  we  have  been  studying  these  unsubstantial  firelight 
shadows,  Will  has  got  out  the  violin  and  we  enjoy  a  half  hour 
singing  old  familiar  songs.  If  there  is  any  place  on  earth 
where  these  good  old  airs  can  be  fully  appreciated  and  enjoyed, 
that  place  is  in  the  woods,  around  the  evening  camp-fire. 

The  hour  is  growing  late  and  all  but  Will  and  I  have  re- 
tired. We  move  up  a  little  closer  to  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fire,  and  sit  an  hour  longer  telling  of  our  hunting  and  fishing 
experiences  of  the  past,  and  planning  pleasure  trips  for  the 
future. 

The  last  flickering  blaze  of  our  fire  dies  out,  a  little  wreath 
of  white  smoke  is  curling  up  through  the  dark  foliage,  we 
scrape  the  coals  together,  cover  them  with  ashes,  and  retire  to 
the  tent. 

[173] 


An  Evening  on  Lake  Waterford. 


There  is  no  need  of  an  opiate  to  drive  away  the  business 
cares  of  the  day,  or  coax  the  fickle  goddess  of  sleep,  but  lulled 
to  dreamland  by  the  solemn  voices  of  night,  and  the  low  whis- 
pering breeze  in  the  branches  overhead,  we  are  asleep  almost 
as  soon  as  we  touch  the  pillow. 

"Across  the  years  that  have  rolled  around, 

And  over  the  miles  that  lie  between, 
Memory  flies  back  to  those  dear  friends, 
And  our  camp,  in  the  woods  so  green." 

— Hastings  Tribune. 


I  174] 


"Our  angler  lands  at  the  mouth  of  Wilson   Creek." 

A  Day  With  the  Buffalo  Bass. 

On  a  beautiful  morning  in  early  autumn,  just  as  the  sun 
cast  his  first  warm  rays  on  the  sleeping  world,  an  angler  might 
have  been  seen  stealing  quietly  out  of  a  tent  pitched  among  the 
oaks  on  the  shore  of  the  Buffalo  River,  in  Linn  County,  Iowa. 

There  is  no  excited  haste  in  his  movements  as  he  steps  into 
his  light  boat,  pushes  it  off  the  shore  and  paddles  away  up  the 
mill  pond. 

Reaching  a  likely  looking  place  he  gently  lays  his  paddle 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  proceeds  to  rig  his  tackle. 

As  he  prepares  his  outfit  for  the  sport  he  loves  so  much  we 
will  steal  a  glance  at  his  outfit  and  his  surroundings. 

His  rod  is  a  four-piece  home-made  affair,  but  serviceable 
and  adapted  to  the  work.  The  reel,  line  and  box  of  tackle  all 
tell  the  story  of  angling  experience  in  many  waters  in  different 
parts  of  the  country. 

As  he  pulls  his  line  through  the  guides  and  attaches  a 
leader  he  casts  his  eye  up  the  river  and  notes  the  lay  of  the 
land.  A  moderately  wide  stream  with  numerous  deep  bends, 
pools,  sunken  logs,  water-covered  boulders,  stretches  of  ripples, 

[1751 


A  Day  with  the  Buffalo  Bass. 


and  sandy  bars  where  the  water  flows  at  the  easy  pace  of  about 
four  miles  an  hour.  The  banks  are  lined  with  oak,  soft  maple, 
willow,  cottonwood,  shrubbery  and  plants,  the  leaves  of  which 
glisten  joyously  as  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  fall  on  the  fresh 
dew  which  sparkles  with  animated  brilliancy.  The  stream 
curves  this  way  and  that,  out  and  in  among  the  hills,  while 
here  and  there  a  little  rivulet  trickles  down  to  mingle  its  wa- 
ters with  the  river.  It  is  the  breakfast  hour  along  the  banks, 
the  birds  are  darting  this  way  and  that,  in  search  of  food,  or 
sitting  in  the  branches  warbling  and  caroling  forth  their  joy. 
Verily,  it  is  good  to  be  in  God's  outdoors  and  mingle  with  his 
little  worshippers  on  such  a  morning. 

The  fisherman  pauses  to  note  a  few  and  marks  the  cat-bird, 
bluejay,  robin,  wren,  kingfisher,  bluebird,  kingbird,  and  then, 
as  the  cast  is  ready,  notices  a  splash  and  surge  of  waters  near 
the  foot  of  an  old  stump  standing  at  the  water's  edge.  Mentally 
deciding  that  the  bass  are  feeding  on  minnows  at  this  hour  of 
the  day,  he  impales  one  upon  the  hook  and  sends  it  spinning 
through  the  air  where  it  falls  naturally  a  few  feet  below  the 
stump  and  is  trolled  slowly  by  the  lair  of  Micropterus. 

When  the  minnow  arrives  at  the  suspicious  point  in  its 
journey,  a  swelling  of  the  waters  is  perceived,  followed  by  a 
violent  tug  on  the  line.  The  battle  is  on.  By  all  disciples  of 
Izaak  the  next  few  minutes  are  fully  appreciated ;  but,  lest 
perchance  these  lines  attract  the  eye  of  some  novice,  I  will 
say  that,  following  the  first  tug,  comes  a  grand  rush  for  deep 
water,  swiftly  the  line  cuts  through  the  water,  merrily  the  reel 
hums  a  lively  air  as  the  spool  makes  revolutions  faster  than  the 
mind  can  estimate.  The  supreme  effort  over,  back  he  comes 
with  rapidity,  the  reel  taking  up  the  slack  as  he  cuts  through 
the  water  for  his  favorite  haunt  by  the  stump.  Here  the  battle 
proper  is  waged.  He  realizes  that,  if  he  can  reach  his  resting 
place  under  the  old  stump,  with  its  roots,  limbs  and  branches, 
he  can  by  darting  about  in  his  subterranean  castle,  so  twist 
and  wind  the  line  around  the  friendly  snags  that,  while  our 
fisherman  was  untangling  it,  he  can  free  himself  at  leisure. 

[176] 


A  Day  with  the  Buffalo  Bass. 


Pulling  this  way  and  that  and  darting  out  of  the  water  in  ef- 
forts to  free  himself,  he  gives  his  enemy  little  time  in  which  to 
anticipate  his  moves.  But  our  angler  is  versed  in  these  tactics, 
and  knows  that  if  he  ever  allows  his  fish  to  gain  the  stump  he 
will  lose  him.  So,  placing  the  necessary  strain  on  the  rod,  he 
persistently  forces  the  fight  in  the  open  water.  His  captive 
begins  to  show  signs  of  giving  up  and  is  gradually  circled  to- 
ward the  boat  and  brought  to  net. 

The  boat  is  headed  to  the  shore  and  our  angler  lands  above 
the  mouth  of  "Wilson  Creek"  and  following  the  stream  north, 
angling  here  and  there,  changing  from  minnow  to  crawfish, 
from  crawfish  to  spoon,  he  works  the  bends  till  luncheon  hour. 

Seeking  a  cool  place  under  the  trees,  he  lies  at  full  length 
on  the  green  sward,  enjoying  his  repast  in  contentment  and 
meditation. 

The  sun,  now  in  the  west,  throws  a  shadow  along  the 
western  bank.  As  the  afternoon  advances,  insects  flutter  un- 
der the  willows,  and  the  bass,  having  found  a  new  pleasure  in 
surface  feeding,  scorn  the  minnow  and  frog.  The  bait  rod  is 
laid  aside  and  our  fisherman  attaches  a  lure  of  feathers  and 
tinsel,  works  along  back  over  his  morning's  course,  and  picks 
up  as  many  bass  as  he  did  on  the  morning  trip  up  stream. 
Then,  as  he  rounds  the  last  bend  above  the  mill,  throws  out  a 
spoon,  takes  the  paddle  and  pulls  down  the  pond  toward  the 
mill.  The  moon  rising  in  the  east  throws  a  bright  light  on  the 
water  and  leaves  a  sparkling  path  of  ripples  behind  the  boat 
as  our  fisherman  paddles  homeward,  well  satisfied  with  his  day 
and  his  string  of  fish. 


[  177  ] 

12 


A  Practical  Joke. 

My  first  boyhood  chum  in  outdoor  sports  was  Arthur 

G .  He  was  of  medium  height,  heavy  set,  had  dark  hair 

and  eyes;  giving  him  a  predominance  of  the  motive  tempera- 
ment, which,  in  connection  with  his  large  caution,  made  him 
slow  and  careful  in  acting;  while  I  was  impulsive  and  incau- 
tious. This  was  a  fortunate  combination  for  me;  as  his  re- 
straining influence  held  me  in  check,  and  kept  me  from  doing 

many  careless  and  foolish  things.  Arthur  G was  slow  to 

anger,  but  had  a  bad  temper  when  thoroughly  aroused.  As  I 
was  always  on  the  alert  to  play  him  practical  jokes,  I  had  to 
be  careful  not  to  carry  these  too  far. 

I  remember  once  when  I  got  beyond  the  limit.  It  was  a 
hot  day  in  autumn.  We  had  been  down  the  river  fishing,  and 
on  our  way  back  stopped  at  a  big  deep  spring  hole  to  drink. 
Arthur  was  very  careful  of  his  clothes  and  had  a  novel  way  of 
drinking  from  a  river  or  spring  without  soiling  them.  He 
would  place  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  the  sand,  in  the  edge  of 
the  water,  then  placing  his  knees  on  his  kimboed  elbows,  bal- 
ance nicely  in  this  position  and  drink.  On  this  occasion  I 
drank  first,  and  was  standing  behind  him  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward. The  position  was  too  tempting  for  me.  I  gave  him  a 
gentle  push  with  my  foot  to  make  him  wet  his  nose.  Imagine 
my  surprise  to  see  him  lose  his  balance  and  go  headlong  into 
the  drink,  like  a  big  bull-frog.  The  look  on  his  face,  as  he  came 
sputtering  to  the  surface,  warned  me  to  keep  out  of  his  way. 
I  did  my  fishing  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  on  the  way  home. 


[179] 


Angling  for  Rats. 


Many  years  ago,  while  on  a  trip  through  the  south  on 

business  matter  called  me  to  the  little  inland  town  of  D , 

in  the  back-woods  country. 

As  I  alighted  from  the  rickety  stage,  after  a  twenty-mile 
ride  over  a  rough  timber  road,  I  glanced  up  the  single  street 
of  country  stores  and  noticed  several  men  sitting  on  boxes, 
each  holding  one  end  of  a  string  in  his  fingers,  the  other  end 
dropping  down  through  a  hole  in  the  "grub  plank"  sidewalk. 
This  looked  like  fishing  to  me  and  I  had  to  investigate  before 
eating  or  resting. 

Upon  inquiring  of  one  of  the  natives  what  he  was  fishing 
for,  he  replied,  "rats." 

I  did  not  know  just  how  to  take  his  reply,  but  decided  to 
await  developments. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  gave  his  string  a  quick  jerk,  and  sure 
enough,  I  heard  the  squealing  protest  of  a  rat  on  the  other 
end  of  the  string. 

The  man  pulled  his  capture  up  to  the  hole  in  the  plank, 
turned  over  the  plank  and  killed  him  with  a  stick. 

I  then  saw  that  the  native  had  told  me  the  truth,  nothing 
but  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth,  and  in  his  one-word  reply. 

At  certain  times  of  the  year^the  town  was  overrun  with 
rats  and  when  this  was  the  case,  angling  for  them  was  the 
leading  local  amusement. 

The  sidewalks  were  made  of  two-inch  pine  planks,  laid  on 
blocked-up  stringers,  one  to  two  feet  from  the  ground.  The 
angler  would  loosen  one  of  these  planks  (with  one  or  two  holes 
in  it)  and  his  angling  preserve  was  ready. 

The  outfit  consisted  of  a  short  stout  line,  and  a  small 
stiff  hook  baited  with  a  piece  of  cheese. 

The  oft-quoted  saying,  "I  go  a-fishing,"  had  henceforth 
for  me  a  new  possibility  of  meaning. 


[181] 


How  the  Doctor  Gained  His  Point. 

Several  years  ago,  two  friends  and  I  went  into  camp  one 
night  on  the  bank  of  the  Wapsie  River  in  southeastern  Iowa. 
After  making  camp  and  getting  supper,  we  sat  around  the  fire, 
enjoying  its  warmth  and  puffing  at  our  pipes  of  Durham.  Dur- 
ing our  talk  the  question  came  up  as  to  how  one  could  get 
the  most  good  out  of  a  campfire  on  a  cold  night.  My  com- 
panions thought  the  best  way  was  to  sleep  with  one's  feet  next 
to  the  fire,  Indian  style.  I  said  that  I  preferred  to  lie  with  my 
back  to  the  fire,  and  swap  sides  as  they  became  alternately  hot 
and  cold.  But  in  this  land  the  majority  rules,  consequently  1 
gave  in,  and  we  went  to  bed  with  our  heads  and  bodies  under 
our  little  dog  tent  and  our  feet  to  the  fire,  which  was  just  out- 
side the  tent  flap. 

In  five  minutes  the  boys  were  both  snoring,  but  the  fire  of 
defeat  was  smoldering  in  my  breast,  and  I  could  not  sleep. 
Suddenly  an  idea  struck  me  and  I  crawled  out  cautiously  from 
under  the  blankets  and  moved  the  smoldering  fire  up  as  close 
to  the  boys'  feet  as  I  could  without  burning  the  tent ;  then  I 
piled  on  a  lot  of  hard,  dry  limbs,  crawled  between  the  blankets 
again,  drew  in  my  feet,  covered  my  head  and  went  to  snoring. 

In  a  few  minutes  G ,  who  was  next  to  me,  groaned, 

turned  over,  drew  up  his  feet  and  thus  escaped  the  fiery  tor- 
ture. Poor  B —  -  did  not  escape  so  luckily.  He  was  built  for 
high  water  and  therefore  had  more  length  than  breadth,  con- 
sequently it  was  a  long  time  before  he  got  news  from  below, 
but  when  he  did  hear  from  his  lower  extremities  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  let  out  a  war  whoop  that  would  have  put  to 
shame  a  Sioux  brave. 

After  camp  got  quiet  we  moved  the  fire  back,  went  into 
the  tent,  fixed  up  a  white  man's  bed,  crawled  into  it  and  slept 
until  morning,  but  I  had  gained  my  point  and  thereafter  I  had 
two  good  solid  converts  to  my  way  of  camping. 

Poor  B ,  he  has  gone  on  his  last  long  jaunt.  He  has 

crossed  the  last  stream  and  camped  on  the  further  side,  where 

[183] 


How  the  Doctor  Gained  His  Point. 

we  must  all  join  him  sooner  or  later,  and  when  called,  may  we 
be  found  fully  equipped.  G —  -  is  a  prosperous  physician  in  a 
live  Ohio  city.  If  he  is  as  great  a  lover  of  rod  and  gun  as  he 
used  to  be,  and  a  reader  of  the  American  Field,  as  he  certainly 
should  be,  this  may  meet  his  eye,  in  which  case  he  will  under- 
stand how  Doc  gained  his  point  on  the  Wapsie  years  ago. 

— American  Field. 


I  1841 


Jumping  Chickens  in  the  Corn. 

I  had  a  relative  from  the  east  visiting  me  in  the  fall,  and 
as  he  came  from  a  country  where  there  is  no  chicken  shooting, 
nothing  would  do  but  he  must  have  a  chicken  shoot  before  go- 
ing back.  As  it  was  well  along  in  October,  it  was  too  late 
for  successful  stubble  or  prairie  shooting  over  a  dog.  The 
summer  here  was  very  dry,  destroying  the  cover  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  the  chickens  would  not  lie  to  the  dog  if  found  on  the 
prairie  or  stubble,  but  would  flush  clear  out  of  range  and  fly 
to  the  nearest  cornfield.  I  told  M.  that  our  only  show  for 
chickens  was  to  take  a  good  retriever  with  us  and  go  through 
the  fields  and  "jump  them."  He  replied  that  he  had  never 
shot  any  chickens  on  the  wing,  and  did  not  expect  he  would  kill 
a  bird  in  a  week  in  this  kind  of  shooting. 

We  started  out  one  afternoon  about  2  p.  m.,  with  a  good 
team  and  driver,  and  drove  out  eight  miles  from  town  before 
stopping.  We  pulled  up  on  the  east  side  of  a  promising  look- 
ing cornfield  of  about  thirty  or  forty  acres,  bordered  on  the 
south  by  a  large  slough.  I  took  the  south  edge  of  the  field ; 
M.  went  in  about  twenty  rods;  we  started  to  the  west  side 
of  the  field.  I  had  only  walked  a  short  distance  when  a  fine 
covey  got  up  in  front  of  me  at  long  range,  and  I  scored  the 
first  miss.  They  dropped  down  in  the  ragweed  on  the  west 
side  of  the  field.  We  followed  t-hem  up,  and  when  they  flushed 
each  got  a  bird.  This  time  they  flew  a  mile  west  to  another 
cornfield.  Our  driver  had  them  well  marked  and  we  got  in 
and  drove  over. 

Arriving  at  the  field  we  got  out  arid  directed  our  man  to 
drive  to  the  nearest  knoll  in  order  that  he  might  mark  down 
for  us.  M.  and  I  then  started  diagonally  across  the  field.  The 
birds  got  up  wild,  and  every  shot  was  a  long  range  snap  shot. 
We  followed  these  coveys  to  three  or  four  other  fields,  swell- 
ing our  bag  to  fourteen  birds.  It  was  now  nearly  sundown,  and 
we  were  twelve  miles  from  home,  tired,  hungry  and  cold.  Our 

[185] 


Jumping  Chickens  in  the  Corn. 


driver  had  foolishly  come  off  without  his  overcoat,  and  as  a 
consequence  he  was  shaking  as  if  he  had  a  fit  of  buck  fever. 

We  are  blest  in  this  country  with  good  roads,  and  on  this 
occasion  we  made  good  use  of  them,  driving  home  in  about 
one  hour  and  a  half.  When  I  seated  myself  at  the  table,  I  at- 
tacked the  substantiate  in  a  way  that  made  Mrs.  S —  -  stare  at 
me  as  if  she  thought  I  had  lost  my  manners  or  gone  crazy. 

And  now,  gentle  reader,  if  you  have  a  friend  come  to  visit 
you  and  he  protests  he  has  never  done  any  wing  shooting,  don't 
flatter  yourself  that  you  are  going  to  wipe  his  eye  about  every 
other  shot,  for  if  you  should  you  might  get  left  as  I  did. 
Friend  M.  claimed  he  had  never  done  any  chicken  shooting,  but 
when  we  counted  our  empty  shells  and  birds  at  night  his  score 
stood  as  clean  as  mine. 

— Forest  and  Stream. 


186 


A  Lake  of  Petroleum. 

This  little  freak  of  nature  lies  hidden  away  among  the 
Wind  River  Mountains  at  an  elevation  of  about  6,000  feet,  six- 
teen miles  south  of  Lander,  Wyoming.  It  is  situated  in  the 
valley  of  the  Little  Popongee  River,  at  a  point  where  it  leaves 
the  giant  mountains  and  winds  off  through  Red  Canyon  toward 
the  foot-hills. 

The  face  of  the  mountains,  all  around  for  hundreds  of  feet, 
is  composed  of  red  sandstone.  The  soil,  and  even  the  clouds 
of  dust  that  come  sweeping  up  the  road  into  our  faces,  was  of 
a  brick-red  color.  This  is  probably  what  suggested  the  name 
to  the  one  who  christened  this  narrow  valley  "Red  Canyon." 
The  original  oil  spring  burst  through  a  crack  in  the  red  sand- 
stone, at  a  point  where  a  break  appears  to  have  occurred  in 
the  solid  rock.  At  least,  this  is  the  way  it  looks  to  an  ob- 
server; for,  while  the  layers  of  rock  in  other  parts  of  the  coun- 
try are  found  one  layer  upon  another  in  regular  order,  as  if 
pushed  up  by  some  powerful  force  below,  here,  in  the  region 
of  the  old  springs,  the  order  of  nature  seems  to  be  reversed, 
and  it  looks  as  though  the  surface  had  dropped  in  toward  the 
center,  forming  a  natural  basin. 

For  many  years  the  flow  of  oil  from  the  springs  and  wells 
in  the  vicinity  has  flowed  into  this  depression  until  a  consider- 
able lake  has  been  formed.  It  is  a  mass  of  pure  petroleum, 
many  feet  deep,  which  has  become  very  thick  and  sticky  on 
account  of  the  evaporation  of  the  lighter  portions.  The  density 
seems  to  increase  with  the  depth ;  and  it  is  so  thick  and  tenaci- 
ous at  the  bottom  that  a  pole  forced  down  into  it  eight  or  ten 
feet  cannot  be  withdrawn.  Its  mirrored  surface  is  never  dis- 
turbed by  the  wind.  No  matter  how  fiercely  the  gale  may  sweep 
up  through  the  canyon,  it  never  kicks  up  any  disturbance 
on  this  little  lake.  It  remains  as  smooth  and  unruffled  as 
though  not  a  breath  of  air  were  stirring. 

Nature's  traps  are  many,  in  all  her  different  kingdoms,  but 
I  know  of  none  more  deadly  than  this  one.  The  restful  bosom 

[187] 


A  Lake  of  Petroleum. 


of  this  harmless  looking  little  lake  lures  to  death  many  of  the 
migratory  water  fowl  that  cross  over  it.  \Yhen  once  a  goose 
or  duck  sets  its  wings  and  drops  into  this  stygian  pool  of  death, 
its  feet  sink  into  the  sticky  petroleum  and  all  struggles  for  free- 
dom are  useless. 

In  conversation  with  Joe  Burns,  who  bored  several  oil 
wells  in  this  vicinity,  he  said:  "That  little  pool  is  a  fatal 
death-trap  for  anything  that  gets  caught  in  it,  and  the  deeper 
they  sink,  the  firmer  they  are  held.  I  can  push  a  pole  down 
eight  or  ten  feet,  but  it  is  impossible  to  withdraw  it.  A  jack 
rabbit,  when  hotly  pursued  by  wolves,  often  dashes  out  upon 
it  to  escape  its  pursuers,  when  both  rabbit  and  wolves  meet  a 
common  fate." 

The  oil,  as  it  comes  from  the  ground,  makes  a  fine  lubri- 
cator for  all  kinds  of  machinery,  and  has  been  used  by  the 
ranchmen  of  the  surrounding  country  for  this  purpose.  The 
wells  that  have  been  bored  near  the  lake,  have  cut  off  the  flow 
from  the  springs.  There  are  three  of  these  wells  in  the  group, 
averaging  a  depth  of  950  feet  and  furnishing  a  strong  flow  of 
good  petroleum,  which,  if  near  a  railroad,  would  be  valuable 
property.  Lander  is  now  the  farthest  from  a  railroad  of  any 
incorporated  town  in  the  United  States,  being  145  miles  from 
the  nearest  railroad  point. 

— Atlas  Magazine. 


188] 


Some  Queer  Catches. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  a  young  trapper,  tramping  up  a 
creek  in  eastern  Iowa  one  day  in  early  spring.  Peering  through 
some  willows  into  the  clear  waters  of  a  little  creek,  I  saw  a 
large  school  of  black  suckers  lying  in  the  shade.  I  always  car- 
ried a  snare  and  short  line  in  those  days,  and,  cutting  a  pole 
from  the  thicket,  I  was  soon  landing  some  of  the  beauties.  I 
was  working  my  snare  carefully  down  toward  the  nose  of  a 
big  fellow,  when  suddenly  every  fish  in  the  pool  darted  across 
the  stream  and  out  of  sight.  I  could  not  understand  what  had 
frightened  them.  I  was  hidden  in  the  willows  and  hadn't  made 
a  quick  move  to  startle  them,  but,  knowing  that  the  cause  of 
their  fright  would  soon  show  up,  I  awaited  developments.  In 
a  few  moments  a  big  muskrat  came  gliding  down  the  stream 
toward  my  snare ;  I  held  it  still  and  when  his  head  entered  gave 
a  sharp  twitch.  The  wire  tightened  around  his  neck  and  1 
landed  a  full-grown  muskrat,  which  I  dispatched  with  a  stick 
and  carried  the  fur  home — but  I  got  no  more  suckers  from  that 
hole  that  day. 

On  another  occasion,  when  trapping  along  the  Iowa-Min- 
nesota state  line,  I  had  a  trap  set  for  mink  on  the  Little  Beaver 
that  gave  me  lots  of  trouble.  Morning  after  morning  I  visited 
this  trap  and  found  it  sprung,  the  bait  gone,  but  no  mink. 
Visiting  the  trap  one  cold  morning,  I  felt  much  pleasure  to 
find  it  had  been  sprung  and  drawn  into  a  hole  in  the  bank. 
Taking  the  chain  in  my  hand,  I  pulled  carefully  on  the  trap, 
holding  my  stick  ready  to  crack  him  on  the  head  when  it  ap- 
peared. The  trap  came  in  sight;  then  a  white  foot;  and  I  was 
much  surprised,  on  drawing  it  out,  to  find  that  I  had  caught  an 
ordinary  white  house  cat.  It  was  a  conundrum  to  me,  as  it  was 
miles  from  any  farmhouse.  I  was  afraid  that  he  was  one  that 
had  run  wild,  but,  though  frightened  at  first,  he  seemed  very 
grateful  to  me  for  removing  the  trap.  He  purred,  rubbed 

[  189  ] 


Some  Queer  Catches. 


against  my  leg,  and  when  I  started  off  followed  me  a  few  steps, 
but  suddenly  disappeared  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

The  next  experience  was  one  in  which  my  partner  had  a 
rather  narrow  escape.  We  were  both  youngsters  at  the  time. 
The  weather  turned  suddenly  cold  one  night  and  "froze  in" 
several  traps  that  we  had  set  under  water  along  the  Little 
Beaver.  In  the  afternoon  the  ice  got  thick  enough  so  it  would 
bear,  and  Charlie  thought  he  would  go  over  the  line  and  cut 
them  out.  He  had  recovered  and  re-set  most  of  his  traps,  and 
was  getting  along  so  nicely  that  he  grew  a  little  careless.  In 
cutting  a  hole,  he  would  cut  it  just  large  enough  to  admit  his 
arm ;  then  put  his  hand  down  and  locate  the  trap,  before  mak- 
ing the  hole  large  enough  to  work  in.  He  got  to  his  last  trap, 
and,  cutting  a  small  hole,  shoved  his  hand  down  into  the  wa- 
ter, and  it  went  plunk  into  the  jaws  of  the  trap,  which  closed  on 
two  of  his  fingers  with  a  snap.  He  was  not  much  frightened 
at  first,  as  he  thought  he  could  enlarge  the  hole,  withdraw  the 
trap  and  release  his  hand.  On  looking  around  for  his  hatchet, 
he  found  that  he  had  thrown  it  on  the  ice  carelessly  and  it  had 
slid  clear  out  of  his  reach.  He  now  fully  realized  his  position 
and  was  badly  frightened.  Two  of  his  fingers  were  firmly  fixed 
in  a  strong  mink  trap ;  the  trap  was  anchored  beneath  the  ice ; 
a  cold  winter  night  was  coming  on,  the  woods  were  full  of 
wolves,  and  he  must  either  freeze,  furnish  a  supper  for  the 
wolves,  or  part  with  his  fingers.  After  making  another  fruit- 
less effort,  he  gave  it  up  and  looked  around  for  some  other 
means  of  release  from  his  predicament.  Noticing  his  gun  lying 
near,  a  new  idea  struck  him.  It  was  a  calm  night  and  perhaps 
by  firing  off  his  gun  he  could  attract  my  attention.  After  a 
hard  effort  he  succeeded  in  getting  hold  of  it,  and  fired  two 
shots.  I  heard  them  at  camp,  but,  as  it  was  no  unusual  thing, 
paid  no  attention  to  it.  Getting  some  shells  in  his  gun,  he  fired 
again,  and  kept  it  up  as  fast  as  he  could  load  and  fire.  Hearing 
these  continuous  reports,  I  knew  something  was  wrong,  and, 
shouldering  my  gun,  struck  off  up-creek  toward  the  seat  of 
trouble.  When  I  came  in  sight  of  Charlie,  there  he  was  on  his 

[190] 


Some  Queer  Catches. 


knees,  working  the  old  gun,  and  mighty  glad  he  was  to  see 
me.  When  liberated  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  said :  "Will, 
I've  often  wondered  how  a  muskrat  could  eat  off  his  foot  and 
leave  it  in  the  trap  to  free  himself — but  I  understand  now.  I 
only  had  three  cartridges  left  when  you  came  in  sight,  and  I'd 
determined,  if  you  didn't  show  up  very  soon,  that  I  would  leave 
those  two  fingers  in  the  trap." 

—Sports  Afield. 


[191] 


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